


the mother of necessity

by TheSilverQueen



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magic, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 08:50:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15409365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverQueen/pseuds/TheSilverQueen
Summary: "How ironic is this?" Gazelle says softly to Eggsy. "I am Arthur’s sword, forged to protect humanity at all costs. You are Athur’s bane, born to destroy humanity at all costs. And yet here we are, fighting on opposite sides."* * * * * *An Arthurian reincarnation AU where Gazelle is Excalibur and decides that if two world wars aren't seen as a need great enough to summon her Once and Future King to save Britain, she's going to make a need great enough for Arthur to be reborn - through any means necessary. And so Excalibur draws herself from the stone and goes about doing exactly that.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone! This is my contribution to the [Kingsman Big Bang 2018](http://kingsman-bigbang.tumblr.com). Thanks to the mods for putting this together, to my lovely artist [meetingyourmaker](http://http://meetingyourmaker.tumblr.com/), to all of my friends for putting up with me on this journey, and to all of you, for continuing to inspire me to write Kingsman fic.
> 
> For inspiration, I drew heavily from [The Mists of Avalon](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Mists_of_Avalon) as well as a little bit from Gerald Morris's "The Squire's Tales", the BBC show Merlin, and the Inheritance Cycle by Christopher Paolini.

The first tribute Merlin makes to Avalon is to forge the weapon of the High King of Albion.

It takes him exactly one year and one day. He pours everything he has into the task: all the craftsmanship he has learned from his teachers in Avalon, all of the love for his people that beats in his breast from his journey across the lands, all of the wonder of the magic that is steeped so deeply into the earth and air and water. He coaxes the finest ore from the gnomes that dwell at the depths of the earth, the oldest wood from dryads that dwell amongst the forests, the purest water from the nymphs that swim in the rivers and streams, the hottest fire from the dragons that soar in the skies. He builds his forge by hand and spell, and as the weapon comes together, he lets his magic and his blood and his love seep into it, until it is far less of a weapon and far more of a magical creature in its own right.

The effort leaves him drained and exhausted, so much so that when he finally lays his creation to rest on the ground, he sleeps for a fortnight.

Merlin doesn’t mind, of course. A High King deserves no less than the best. Especially Merlin’s High King.

Every High King has their own unique weapon. The High King of the seas has a trident, forged with ore from the depths and quenched in the fury of riptides. The High King of the Fae has a crown, woven of everlasting fire and adorned with living stones. The High King of the forests has a staff, grown from the oldest trees in all the lands and housing seeds of plants long since lost to time. Each is as much a part of the High King as they are the kingdom, and each was crafted with painstaking devotion and exquisite detailing.

Merlin is determined to do no less for his High King, the Once and Future King, he who shall unite Albion and save it from both past and future. He doesn’t exactly intend to make a sword – he would have been content with any weapon, whether a cloak or a shield or a bow – but when he wakes and gazes upon the ground, he finds that his magic has indeed made a sword.

It shines, even in the darkness, and when he reaches out to touch it, it reaches back.

_Hello,_ whispers the sword. _Hello, creator and watcher and sorcerer. Hello, Emrys._

A High King is no more the same as a king than a mountain is the same as a pebble. Perhaps they might share the same foundation, the same origin, the same composition, but while a pebble could be a mountain and pebble both, a mountain could never be anything less than a mountain. 

A weapon of a High King is much the same.

Merlin rests his fingers on the flat of the blade. He is very careful, because his magic hums with the exhilaration and the warning at being so close to such a dangerously sharp blade. And this sword is not just dangerous because its edges will never dull; this sword watches and thinks and learns. He is its creator, but it is not meant for him. This sword can kill him just as easily as the crown of the fae or the staff of the forests or the trident of the seas.

“I am Merlin,” he says. “What is your name?”

The sword glimmers. It is not thinking, not really; every High King’s weapon knows its name and purpose as surely as its High King does. But names are power, and power is never easily put into words.

_I am Excalibur._

“I made you for my king,” Merlin says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

_Our king,_ says Excalibur. 

“Yes,” Merlin agrees. He should, perhaps, feel jealous, for he has walked the earth for a thousand years waiting for his king and this sword has existed for one, but he cannot bring himself too. He already knows deep in his bones that he will never marry, never have children, never have property or title or wealth. Excalibur and the Once and Future King will be all Merlin will ever have, and he will cherish them unto death.

_The Once and Future King of Albion,_ Excalibur muses. The sword sounds almost wistful. _How long must I wait for our king?_

Merlin looks across the waters of Avalon. The seers have foretold the High King of Albion for a long, long, long time, before Merlin was even a name that spilled across the stars to be read and written and studied. The High King could come tomorrow and he could come in another thousand years.

“I do not know. What does your magic tell you?”

_To be patient._ The sword’s hilt glitters, runes flashing and vanishing as Excalibur learns Albion and Albion learns Excalibur back. _I am not patient._

Merlin can’t help it; he laughs. It is fitting, he supposes, that the weapon he forges carries both the best and worst of him forward, even if he might not have chosen impatience to be on the list of qualities that shone through.

“Then I guess we must be patient.”

_I am not patient,_ Excalibur repeats. _I would rather be with our king._

“Our king might be a long time in coming.” Merlin can feel the impatience rising in the sword, for it burns his fingers. It is a pleasant burn, like a hot bath against chilled skin, but he can feel the danger in it. He does not want his king to come to power with a sword that burns like a barely tamed warhorse at his hip, forever chomping at the bit. The Once and Future King will have to go to war, but he will also have to make peace. “Shall I tell you about him, Excalibur?”

“ _Yes,_ ” says Excalibur. “ _Tell me about him, creator. Tell me about our king._ ”

* * *

Excalibur gets bored of the storytelling after about a decade – which, to be fair, is longer than Merlin had expected – so in order to keep the bloodshed at a minimum, Merlin forges a scabbard and packs a bag and starts to travel again. He never wields her, because Excalibur, for all she is his creation, is still not his where it matters most, but he travels to let her learn Albion the way he did. By day she watches her people laugh and play and fight and kill and love and hate, and by night she breathes in the air and drinks the water and feels the earth tremble.

Then comes the first night that Merlin is attacked.

It’s not a new experience. Bandits are common all over the five kingdoms, and in Camelot they are multiplying by the dozens. Merlin has heard many things of Uther Pendragon, but he is both newly crowned and relatively young; it’s to be expected that he is still embroiled in the struggle to establish his authority.

Merlin dispatches the first with a sharp rap of a stick over the head, and the second with a hilt to the chin. The remaining three are warier after that, so Merlin lets his eyes go gold as he sinks his hands into the soil and feels the forest around him shudder into awareness, humming and thrumming around him. Roots rise and entrap the feet of the third while branches descend to ensnare the fourth, for in this moment Merlin is the forest and the forest is Merlin and directing it is as easy as spreading his fingers.

The fifth makes the mistake of grasping Excalibur and drawing her free from the scabbard.

The forest screeches to a halt, for Excalibur was forged of raw magic and pure love, and now that she is free all can sense it.

The bandit’s grin falters when he finds that the sword he snatched up grows heavier and heavier, until he’s on his knees and struggling to keep upright as Excalibur slides into the dirt as easily as a knife cleaves butter, the hilt glowing bright gold in the dark.

“What sorcery is this?” he cries, tugging frantically at his hands.

“Only the Once and Future King can wield Excalibur,” Merlin answers, the words tumbling from his mouth without any input from him. “She was made for one person and one person alone, and you are not him.”

Then he raises his hand and lets the forest swallow the bandit whole.

* * *

“Merlin,” Excalibur says later, once he has moved to a different campground, “are those the ones we are meant to protect?”

Her tone rings with doubt and anger. It makes sense, of course; Excalibur’s blessing is such that her wielder cannot be defeated as long as their courage lasts, so Excalibur herself has an immense amount of strength, all the strength willingly given from the forest and the water and the earth and the air and all the creatures that dwell within them. She is a noble sword for a noble king, but Merlin senses the need to make sure she understands.

“Yes,” he says firmly. 

“Why?”

“Our king will unite all of Albion under one banner. That includes all of her people.”

“But they – ”

“They were unworthy of you? Yes, most of them will be. But they are people too, Excalibur – they are farmers that barren fields have left starving, merchants that raided caravans have left penniless, knights that countless wars have left tired and aching. Few choose this lifestyle.”

Excalibur is quiet for a long, long moment. He can sense her uneasiness, but also her willingness to listen. Merlin forged her for both war and peace, after all.

Finally, she says, “Our king will change all of that.”

Pride fills Merlin’s chest. She is unshakeable again, a beacon to light the way and a flame to cleanse the path. She will serve their king well, and he is so glad that he is no longer alone in this faith that grips tight and carries one through long nights and longer years.

“Yes,” Merlin says, “yes he will.”

* * *

Merlin takes Excalibur even further. He walks away from the bustling cities and crowded markets and heads straight into the woods, where there are valleys that never see the sun and mountains that never see spring. He shows her where the unicorns still frolic and the dragons still fly. He shows her where the fae still cross over to dance and the Sidhe still cross over to lure bright young things for their amusement. He brings her right to the edge of the Albion-that-will-be, and there he stops and says, “One day, Excalibur, this will all be yours.”

Excalibur does not speak, but she does not need to.

_This is ours,_ she murmurs, and as the wind carries the scent of the sea to the cliff side, Merlin grips Excalibur tight and knows, deep in his heart, that it is time.

In the morning, Merlin wakes to find himself surrounded by a fast growing lake. When he first opens his eyes, it is just a merrily trickling stream; by the time he has raised himself onto one elbow, it is already knee deep. When he finally stands and lets his eyes go golden, the lake is deep enough to swallow a man his height twice over.

“Who goes there?” Merlin calls out.

Immediately ripples begin to appear in the center of the lake, and then a woman robed in white and silver rises from the lake. That she is magical is immediately obvious, especially when she lifts one dainty bare foot to begin walking towards him and the waves carry her forward in gentle laps.

“I am the Lady of the Lake,” says the woman. “You are Merlin, and she is Excalibur.”

“Yes,” Merlin says.

“Yes,” Excalibur says.

The Lady of the Lake smiles, and Merlin tenses. Her smile is the smile of courtiers and politicians, of dancing fairies and sly kelpies, of danger and politeness and courtesy all rolled into one. It is one to be feared. “It is time,” the Lady of the Lake tells him. 

At once, Merlin forgets his aching feet and his tired eyes. Every single being of Avalon knows there is only one thing Merlin has ever waited for. 

“Are you sure?”

“Do you doubt my word?”

Merlin shrugs. The Lady of Lake is considered a neutral party in the affairs of the mortal and immortal worlds, but he has never forgotten that each Lady of the Lake is usually formerly of the High Priestesses of the Old Religion. Such loyalties are usually never so easily set aside. “The Priestesses have never awaited the birth of the Once and Future King with anticipation, merely caution and plotting.”

A slender smile curves her lips, but this one is amused and gentle. “The Old Religion was born long before the One and Future King, and it will last long after his death. That does not mean we ignore the portents that signal his coming.”

The waters of the Lake are now up to Merlin’s waist, but he ignores that. He knows that water has been foretold as his final grave, but he still has a king to serve and a kingdom to protect; water is merely his friend right now. He lets his hands sink deep into the water’s waves and reach out across all the lakes and rivers and ponds of the world, lets his call echo out, lets his magic ripple and dance throughout the world, and he knows the truth of her words before he even closes his eyes completely. The skies and the forests and the winds are all singing, bursting with joy, and everyone is humming the same tune: _The Once and Future King has come._

“Our King is here,” Excalibur says, and her song is the strongest of all.

Merlin lets his joy join the song, for he has waited a thousand years to see his day come. “Yes,” Merlin breathes, “our King is here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing I would like to stress very much is that although I did a similar Arthurian reincarnation styled work for last year's Big Bang, this story occurs a COMPLETELY different universe. In Once Upon An Avalon, I drew entirely upon the character of Merlin from the TV show Merlin, so he's clumsy but kind and I love him. In this story, Merlin definitely falls more into the line of The Mists of Avalon's Merlin, where he's . . . I mean, Kevin and Taliesin are nice but they can also misguided and sometimes kinda an arsehole. TDLR: I'm a weirdo, I constantly utilize the same foundations to draw inspiration from, but nothing is related; this is not TheSilverQueen's Expanded Universe, thank god.


	2. Take Me Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The taking up of Excalibur

Arthur’s first clear memory of Merlin is, fittingly enough, not of Merlin himself, but rather the things he associates with Merlin: the sharp scent of an incoming thunderstorm, the unnaturally soft blanket Merlin had tucked round his flailing baby limbs, and the glinting of sunlight off of a sword at Merlin’s hip.

Slowly, as he grows older and learns more about the mysterious sorcerer who had appeared in a strike of lightning at Arthur’s christening, the pieces start to come together. The thunderstorm is the scent of magic around Merlin, so powerful that it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand. The soft blanket had been Merlin’s gift to the court, as a way to explain his attendance to a christening he had not been invited to. And the sword, well.

Arthur’s father _loves_ retelling the story of how Arthur had gurgled demandingly and waved fat baby fists at the blade until Merlin had deigned to kneel before the little prince and let him touch the pommel.

Merlin is powerful. He is reputedly the greatest sorcerer in all the lands, capable of feats that would take dozens of others working together, and Uther had long been proud of the fact that Merlin had come to Camelot’s court to offer his service. Of course, Uther had been suspicious too, but although Arthur never learns what Merlin had said to allay those fears, Uther had quickly made an announcement of a new court sorcerer and that had been that.

And although Arthur grows used to the scent of rain and lightning and cherishes the still soft blanket of his childhood, he never sees the sword again and no matter how he asks, Merlin will never speak of it.

* * *

Arthur is given his first sword as soon as he’s old enough to be trusted not to poke his own eyes with it. It’s not even a real sword, just a wooden stake fashioned painstakingly into the shape of a sword. But it gives Arthur something to work with, something to wave and thrust and carry fastened on his hip.

Sir Ector is the First Knight of Camelot, Uther’s most trusted knight, and he takes Arthur under his wing. He shows Arthur how to hold the blade, how to fight, how to dance on the ground and not be tangled in his own two feet. Arthur takes to practicing late into the night, until his eyes are drooping more than his arms, and when he falls into bed, dreams of swordplay follow him into sleep.

But they’re never about his wooden practice sword or even the shining blades the knights carry.

No, Arthur dreams of a special sword, one with a hilt of gold and a glittering blade, glowing with power and calling Arthur’s name.

Arthur knows in his heart it is the sword he once saw at Merlin’s hip.

* * *

The first time Arthur sees Merlin use magic – real magic, not the simple sleight of hand and little tricks of making utensils dance or flowers bloom – he is attending his first session at court, listening to countless citizens of Camelot present petitions to his parents. Uther sits proud and straight-backed on his throne, his crown of gold and rubies upon his brow, and Igraine leans forward her chair with her diadem of silver and sapphires nestled in her hair. They are a stunning image, enough to have the shyer citizens stuttering, but Igraine is welcoming and soft and Uther gruff and gentle, and between them they mediate dozens of complaints.

Arthur sits next to his mother on a tiny throne, trying to be serious, and instead growing a little bored.

When Uther announces a break for the midday meal, Arthur asks the question he’s held back this entire day, because when he asked to see what court was like, _this_ is not what he meant.

“But, Mother, why us? Why not the courts or the governors?”

Igraine smiles and pats gently at his hand. “We are the king and queen,” she says. “We are the servants of our people, and that service takes many forms. Sometimes it is waging war upon our enemies, so that our people may be safe; and sometimes, it is the far less exciting way of listening to our people’s complaints, so that we might know their fears and troubles and alleviate them in any way we can.”

“What if we can’t help?” Arthur asks, because he might be a child but he already knows. Today a farmer came before them because his only son had died in a flood, and while Uther can dole out extra grain to those whose harvests are poor and grant extra horses to those who need them, nothing can replace a child.

“Then we listen,” Igraine tells him. “Sometimes that’s all they need: to know that we know, that we care, that we are here.”

“My Queen,” a servant says, face serious, and Igraine leans away to listen as the servant murmurs. Arthur looks back at the crowd of people, his people, and feels for the first time a yawning sense of responsibility: one day, his parents will be gone, and he will have to sit upon the throne with that heavy, heavy crown and listen to his people. But it does not swallow him and leave him drowning. Arthur feels only a keen sense of _rightness_ because this is what he was born to do. He was born to serve Camelot.

There’s a sudden outbreak of screams from the crowd of people, and around him Arthur sees death unfold in slow motion: the sudden, terrified shriek from his mother at his side, the guards at the edge of the dais leaping forward with desperation on their faces and hands on their swords, his father stretching into a run from the edge of the room where he’d been conferring with Sir Ector, and, most terrifying of all, the sorcerer with bloodshot eyes and bared teeth and eyes burning gold in the middle of the room, lightning crackling at his fingertips. And Arthur thinks, _Oh. So this is magic._

Which is, of course, when a flash of bright light ignites in the throne room, making Arthur flinch back.

The sorcerer goes flying, his lightning leaving only a charred spot on the floor. The guards snap to attention around them, swords drawn and shields bristling. His mother wrenches him from his chair and clasps him tight as his father nearly trips over his own feet as he climbs back onto the dais to hug them both.

When Arthur looks up, though, he sees only Merlin.

For once, Merlin is not the scent of gentle thunderstorms and soft blankets. He is utterly still, like stone, with the only motion betraying that he is breathing the flickering of the golden light that illuminates his eyes. His face is hard and bitter, like the stone gargoyles at the battlements, and his usually somber plain robes are glittering with strange symbols that glow as he takes slow steps forward, one hand raised to keep the gasping, struggling sorcerer high in the air.

“Traitor,” the sorcerer croaks.

Merlin snarls – actually snarls, like the hunting dogs, but much deeper, like a sound drawn straight from the bowels of the earth. “Arthur Pendragon is my King,” Merlin says. “My magic is for him and him alone.”

“Arthur Pendragon will be the end of us all.”

“Not for you,” Merlin says, tilting his head. “I will be the end of you.”

Merlin raises his other hand, so that both are cupping the air, and does – something. Arthur’s not sure what, except that the sorcerer’s mouth opens and his face twists as though he should be screaming, but no sound emerges. He simply crumbles into dust and ash, yet when his tattered clothing lands on the ground, there is nothing of him remaining. He is just _gone_ , as though he had never existed.

“Let this be a message to the Old Religion,” Merlin announces, voice clear as a trumpet. Arthur doesn’t know who he’s speaking to, since the entire crowd has gone silent, but Merlin gazes into the distance as though he knows exactly to whom he is speaking. “Arthur Pendragon is not to be harmed.”

* * *

Later, when the guards have whisked away the mess and the people have been ushered away, Igraine will lean forward and say, “Merlin – Merlin, _thank you_.” 

And Merlin will say, “Anything for my King.”

But when he bows, Arthur knows it is not for Uther, and it is a realization that thrills him down to the very depths of his soul.

* * *

After that, his parents are warier. Arthur is always given an escort now, even within the castle. When he is with Merlin, though, his escort is content to lounge in the corridor. They all know no assassin would ever be able to touch Arthur with Merlin nearby, even with his hands full of potions and herbs. His gaze is always golden and watchful, and Arthur flits about poking at things secure in the knowledge that he is safe.

“Meeeerrrlliiiinnn,” Arthur whines, one day when Merlin is preparing a particularly tricky potion, given that half of the ingredients are glowing and the other half are being carefully measured out.

“Yes, my King?” Merlin says absently.

Merlin always calls Arthur “my King”. Even if Uther is present. Arthur’s not really sure what to make of it, but his parents never object, so Arthur just goes with it.

“I’m bored.”

“You could always attend to your lesson, my King.”

“Those are even more boring.”

“Kingship is about more than gallantly riding into battle,” Merlin says, because everyone thinks that Arthur cares more for war than anything else. Which he does care for, but Arthur prefers mock battles and tournaments. He’s seen enough death when the healing halls overflow with patients when a plague comes through.

“Tell me the story,” Arthur commands.

“Again, my King?” Merlin teases, upending an entire vial of what appears to be weeds into the potion. It glows deep purple and then smokes faintly. “You’ve heard it so many times.”

Arthur crosses his arms and glowers, because that is what is expected of him. He will demand, Merlin will tease, Arthur will sulk, Merlin will give in. He has heard this story a thousand times, but for some reason it never gets boring despite the fact that it never changes. It settles something deep in his gut, like a lock clicking into place. Part of the appeal is the nature of the story – full of courage and knights and battle – but part of it is also how Merlin tells it, full of meaningful pauses and glowing golden eyes, and Arthur knows that one day he’ll sit down and figure out the hidden message in the story.

But not today.

Today Arthur fell off his horse and jammed his fingers in a door and got stuck in his mail. Today Arthur just wants to be like any other boy listening to a story.

“Very well,” Merlin says with a sigh, as though he doesn’t seem more settled after each telling too. “Let me tell you the story of the Once and Future King.”

* * *

As Arthur grows, his training turns to real swords and real bows and real axes. He is given a horse to raise and train, and a litter of puppies to care for and master. Tutors are brought him to teach him Latin and Greek and arithmetic. 

His first crown, though, comes from Merlin.

When Arthur comes of age, dozens of skilled craftsman come from all over the kingdom to offer their services at making their prince’s crown. Uther and Igraine see them all, but after one is rejected and throws a tantrum in the corridor, Merlin steps in and dismisses all of them with a wave of his hand and a steely golden-eyed glare.

Merlin then promptly disappears in the forge and is not seen for three days.

It’s okay, though. When Arthur kneels before his father and repeats the vows that will make him Crown Prince of Camelot, his mother beaming proudly from her throne and his father struggling to maintain a serious face, he sees the crown Merlin holds from the corner of his eyes and it is beautiful.

On paper, it is a normal crown. It is forged of gold, with twisting designs of regal dragons for his father and blossoming flowers for his mother. It is set with rubies, modest red stones that glitter in the torch light. 

But no mere crown gleams like Arthur’s does, and the dragons are so lifelike that Arthur expects to feel the warmth of their imaginary flames burning at his head. Merlin does not even though the crown; it floats above his hands on a cushion of air, glowing softly in the light, and when Uther takes it to place on Arthur’s head he actually blinks, as though surprised at the weight of it.

“I crown thee Arthur, Crown Prince of Camelot,” Uther says, pride in his voice, and settles the crown neatly on his head.

It is heavy, in a way, but no more than Arthur can bear. Magic shivers down his spine, and Arthur knows without asking that Merlin must have imbued it with protective magic. It is only fitting, in a way, that his first real crown comes from his sorcerer, who has served him since birth.

The knights and lords of the castle pledge their loyalty one by one to Arthur, kneeling on the floor and offering their swords or great tributes of gold and gems.

Merlin merely dips his head and says, “My King.”

It is all he ever needs to say.

* * *

Merlin only leaves Camelot once in Arthur’s entire life. A small falcon comes bearing a scroll that puts a fierce scowl on his face, and he departs with all due haste, promising to return in a fortnight’s time.

Of course, that is when everything goes to hell.

The soldiers come in a never-ending stream, made undying with ancient magic of the Old Religion, bypassing the wards laid in the battlements with sorcerers of their own. Arthur’s mother is felled by an arrow as they pack clothes and weapons for a retreat; Arthur’s father stays behind to give them time to get away.

In one single night, Arthur is made both orphan and King, and as he lies shuddering in the darkness he wonders if it might be better to die here and now, to free his knights of the burden of caring from him.

Merlin comes, because of course he does, and gets in the way of that.

“I failed them,” Arthur gasps, even as his wound goes white-hot as Merlin murmurs hasty spells and packs it with bandages. “I failed them all.”

“No,” Merlin says. “No, my King, it is I who should never have left you.”

“I should be enough on my own!”

“Oh, Arthur,” Merlin says, and Arthur stares because Merlin has _never_ called him by name before. “A true King is never alone. You have your heart and your mind and your love for Camelot, and now you will have your crown and your sword and your men. You will never be alone again, and you will sit on Camelot’s throne.”

“How can you be so sure?” Arthur demands, because in his eyes he can only see the Camelot he left burning and stained with the blood of his parents.

Merlin grips his hand tight, face solemn and dark. He looks different too, like whatever drew him from Camelot left scars on the inside of him, where Arthur can sense them but not see them. Arthur knows exactly what that feels like now.

“Let me show you why I am so sure.”

* * *

Merlin brings Arthur to a quiet little clearing. It’s no different from the ten other clearings they have passed in the hours they’ve been walking, but for one thing: in the center rests a stone about the height of a man, and driven straight into the middle of it is a sword.

It is Arthur’s sword.

“What is this?” Arthur says.

“That is Excalibur,” Merlin answers, folding his hands deep into his sleeves. “She is the sword of the High King of Albion, he who is the Once and Future King.”

And Arthur has heard the story of the Once and Future King a thousand times, but never had he once imagined he would meet him. He had certainly never imagined he might be him, this King of legend who would unite all the lands and usher in a Golden Age that would never again come to pass until the King returned.

Arthur Pendragon is a King without a kingdom, a son without parents, a man without a sword. He is no Once and Future King.

Arthur says, “You must be mistaken.”

Merlin closes his eyes and sighs. When he opens them, they are bright golden, like when he is casting a spell, except there is no magic coming from Merlin now. “I was born to serve the Once and Future King, Arthur. Excalibur was forged to serve the Once and Future King. We have waited for a very, very long time. And besides, even if I was mistaken, Excalibur would never be so easily fooled. She knows you of old, and I imagine it’s much the same for you.”

“Only in my dreams,” Arthur whispers.

“Camelot was once a dream too,” Merlin replies. “A little dream in the head of a young knight, poor and penniless and yearning after a noble lady he could never hope to marry.”

Merlin might say more after that; Arthur stops listening, partially because his parents are still a painful thorn in his heart and partially because Excalibur is calling to him, just as she has in all of his dreams.

Somehow, someway, he finds himself all the way across the clearing to the stone, and when he puts his hands around her hilt he feels only that burning sense of clear rightness, like a circle being closed into a forever loop, like a key twisting neatly into a lock, like the rising of the sun and the setting of the moon. This is more than just a sword; this is _destiny_ , and Arthur has come into it at last.

“My King,” Excalibur says, and she says exactly like Merlin.

“Excalibur,” Arthur says, and then falters. What does one do with a stone in a stone? “What should I do with you?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Excalibur laughs. “Take me up.”

And the sword slides through the stone like butter, smooth and easy and wondrous, until Arthur has pulled it clear with hardly any effort and stands there staring at the blade like an idiot as his knights come crashing into the clearing, huffing and puffing.

“My King,” says Bedivere, and then he stops and stares as well.

“What?” Arthur snaps.

“Did you – is that – did you just . . . Did you just take that sword out of the stone?” Bedivere asks.

Arthur just glares, because he’s never answered a stupid question from one of his knights in the past and he isn’t about to start now. Arthur lost his sword in the flight from Camelot, having buried it in the chest of an undying soldier and realizing too late that it was buried too deep to retrieve without getting too close to the soldier’s flailing limbs as he promptly failed to die. It’s not like there’s somewhere else the sword could have come from.

“My King,” Leon says, because he actually has a working head on his shoulders. “That sword has been there for, well . . . ages. It is said only the High King may remove it, because only he is fit to wield it.”

And sure enough, when Arthur turns out, those exact words are written across the face of the stone in gleaming gold, even though he could’ve sworn they weren’t there when it was just Merlin and him alone in the clearing. In fact, the stone is very different than before, for it has vines and dust upon it like it’s stood alone for many years, waiting patiently as countless men tried and failed to take up the sword.

Waiting for Arthur, apparently.

“This is Excalibur,” Arthur tells his men. “And we are going to take back Camelot. Who stands with me?”

His knights are tired and bloodied and dusty, but to a man they all roar in agreement, so loud the clearing shakes, and Excalibur is humming with excitement at his side and Merlin is grinning with pride and Arthur knows, deep down in his bones, that when he next sits upon Camelot’s throne as the king, he will earned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we see the flavoring from the bits of The Sword and the Stone that I added. For funsies really, that movie cracks me up.


	3. Cast Me Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The casting away of Excalibur

The first time Mordred meets King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot, the King has him disarmed and flat on his back in under a minute. Mordred is not particularly angered by this; he is a sword for hire, and now that his buyer seems to be defeated and therefore will be unable to pay him, he just shrugs and raises his arms to demonstrate his surrender.

It earns him a strange look, as if the King can sense that Mordred was holding back – but that’s impossible. Mordred’s skill at hiding his true talents has kept him alive for many years.

Eventually, though, the King remembers that he is in the middle of a battle, and he moves on, leaving other knights to herd Mordred to the tent of prisoners.

* * *

The second time Mordred meets King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot, it is after two tankards of mead and several minutes of a tongue-lashing from a local minor noble.

“Don’t you understand who I am?” he roars. “Move aside, boy.”

Mordred looks him up and down. He is one of the worst kinds of nobility: just powerful enough that he can actually cause some trouble for his people, but not so powerful that the insecurity of position is able to leave him alone, meaning that he is constantly trying to prove himself. Mordred has no fear of him, of course, because he has two chins and his belt is struggling to contain the copious size of his belly, but he has also just sat down with steaming slice of pie and doesn’t wish to take the time to toss the man out.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to.

Camelot’s knights come pouring in, as relentless as they did in battle, taking up seats and ordering drink and food, making merry and flashing their dashing red and gold cloaks. The minor noble swells with the misplaced righteousness of his kingdom’s knights, and he raises his bowl and throws the entirety of its contents – eggs, eggs, and more eggs – into Mordred’s face.

“There,” he says, smug like a bullfrog, “that will teach you to ignore your betters.”

“On the contrary,” says a voice, and Mordred and the noble are both surprised when King Arthur himself comes sliding into the chair opposite, “a better man would have left this knight in peace to eat his food. Any working man deserves such after a hard day’s work.”

The noble splutters. “He’s a sellsword!”

“He is making his way in the world the best he can,” King Arthur says calmly, eyes unwavering as the noble starts to quiver. “And he’s come farther than I imagine you might.”

The noble swallows hard, finally noticing the faces on the knights arrayed around him – mostly disinterested, but some judging and a few highly entertained. These men he had thought would come to his defense as a citizen of Camelot, but Mordred can tell right now that the most these knights will do is spread the story. When King Arthur leans toward Mordred and ignores him entirely, the noble finally decides to scurry away like the posturing mouse he is.

“I do apologize,” King Arthur tells him, his hair as bright gold as his crown and his gleaming gold sword at his belt, “for not intervening before you became, well.”

“Sir Eggsy, at your service,” Mordred says, because it’s fun to mess with nobles and the eggs don’t taste half bad, even if they’ll likely be hell to wash off. He nods at the sword, which glows even in the darkness of the tavern. “You go everywhere with that?”

“It’s my sword,” King Arthur says. “Where else would she be?”

“Not worried someone’s gonna nick it?”

King Arthur smiles, like he knows something Mordred doesn’t. “Surely you’ve heard of the legend of Excalibur.”

“Legends can be wrong.”

“Or they can be right. I’ve heard many stories about you, Sir Mordred the Wandering Knight.”

Mordred feels his face grow tight. King Arthur wouldn’t be the first blue-blooded royal to turn his nose down at the scruffy commoner knight, but Mordred had been hoping he would be different. He had been noble during the battle, sparing the lives of those who yielded, and Mordred had wondered if maybe the stories of the famous kind King Arthur were true.

“If you’re about to judge me, you can leave,” Mordred says. 

“I’m a King. I am always a judge.”

“Yeah, I bet you are. All of you blue-blooded boys in your ivory towers, fat with gold and gems and fawning lords and ladies,” Mordred sneers. “You’ve had your entire life handed to you on a silver platter, and you think that gives you the right to judge the rest of us who’ve had to scrape and beg and bleed to give you tribute before you cut off our heads.”

King Arthur blinks, but his face doesn’t change. If anything, he doesn’t seem at all offended; he seems _interested_. 

“You think I cut off heads?”

“You would rather leave Lord I-Will-Hire-Mercenaries alive instead?”

“Yes,” King Arthur says. “He’s no longer a lord, of course; that title and his lands will go to someone far more deserving. But I don’t execute vassals without due cause.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

King Arthur looks at him. He’s so shiny in his perfect, bright mail that Mordred almost wants to upend all of his mead over him just so that he could see he’s not so different from regular people, only shinier – but Camelot’s knights are watching and Mordred really doesn’t want to die over spilling good mead over someone so he just sits back.

“Am I allowed to defend myself from your accusations?”

“You could try. It’ll be a right laugh for me.”

“You imagine you could do better as King of Camelot?”

Mordred frowns. He thinks of the time he was so hungry he carved bark from trees and boiled it in water to have something to put in his aching belly. He thinks of the time he helped overrun an innocent town so that the gold he was paid could buy clothing for his friends. He thinks of every time they had begged their King for help only to receive nothing but empty promises and scornful laughter, until their village was raided to extinction by bandits and thieves. So Mordred leans forward and says, “Of course I could. I could do better than all of you without breaking a sweat.”

King Arthur smiles. “Then prove it.”

* * *

The third time Mordred meets King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot, it is in the King’s rooms, examining a gilded mirror that could probably pay for Mordred’s body weight in gold. 

“You’re rather bold,” King Arthur says upon coming in.

“You asked me to prove it,” Mordred replies, cocking a hip against the wall and watching as the King shows absolutely no concern that a random stranger has broken into his castle and has been doing who knows what in his private rooms. “Did you think I wasn’t up to the task?”

King Arthur smiles and gestures at the mirror. “Do you know what I see?”

“A man who’s wondering whether he’s going to see the next sunrise?”

“I see a man full of potential,” King Arthur continues, rolling right over Mordred like the blue-blooded royal he is. “A man who wants to do something good with his life. A man who only needs the opportunity to adapt and learn and transform. Do you think you’re up to that?”

Mordred shrugs. “You think I got anything to lose?”

* * *

This is how Mordred ends up kneeling in the great hall of Camelot, the red-gold cloak of the Pendragon slung over his shoulder and brand new mail gleaming on his chest, with King Arthur grinning smugly at him as he taps Mordred’s shoulders, announcing in loud, equally smug voice, “I declare you Sir Mordred of Camelot.”

* * *

“You – know – what,” Mordred wheezes out three days later, lying flat against the grass where he had collapsed the second Arthur had announced the end of the training session, “I think – your wizard – doesn’t – like me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur says. He’s also only slightly out of breath, which makes Mordred hate him even more. “Merlin is just protective. He’s suspicious of all the new knights.”

Mordred would agree, except that Merlin glared at him all during his ceremony, gives him grunts for answers when he tries to engage him in polite conversation, and still turns up like a bad penny whenever Mordred tries to do – well, anything really. Even now, Mordred can see him out of the corner of his eye, glowering darkly in the window as Arthur sits beside him.

“How long does it take to end?” 

Arthur shrugs. He’s surprisingly nonchalant about a sorcerer who could kill him with one thought, but maybe that’s just a Camelot thing. “Some of my vassals are sending sons to me for fostering,” he says instead. “In a week’s time, my sorcerer will have bigger things to worry about than you, I promise.”

* * *

Merlin does not, as it turns out, have bigger things to worry about.

Mordred catches him watching when Mordred is purchasing food in the square or talking to the master of the armory or even saddling a bloody horse. When Mordred is injured during practice, Merlin gives him the requisite potions and unguents, but he explains how to use in the least amount of words possible. When Mordred expresses a fondness for the newest litter of puppies, Merlin claims the one Mordred wanted for his own and sends it off as tribute to some magical allies or something.

Finally, Mordred corners him during a feast, where Merlin can’t run away without looking undignified.

“My Lord Merlin,” Mordred says cheerfully, ensuring Merlin is trapped between a pillar and a table. “This feast is truly wonderful. I rather enjoyed your display earlier.” He continues on in this frivolous tone until Merlin finally snaps. It takes a lot less time that he thought it would.

“What do you want?” 

Mordred takes a long, slow sip of wine. It is very good, of course; nothing but the best for the Pendragon court. “I want to know why you hate me. You barely know me, and I certainly don’t know you. Did I murder someone you love?”

That gets him a baleful, if slightly shocked, look, as if Merlin didn’t realize Mordred knew about how Merlin sees him.

“No.”

“Then pray tell,” Mordred says, “why _do_ you dislike me?”

Merlin just looks at him, as if he is dirt underneath Merlin’s boots, and it’s like an ice-cold splash to Mordred’s soul. King Arthur leads by example and respect as well as blood and tradition, and in Camelot it matters not who your father was or how big your lands are. In Camelot, you _earn_ a seat at the Round Table, and since his knighting, Mordred has been treated with at least as much respect as that given to knights like Sir Leon and Sir Bedivere, who have been part of the court from the beginning.

“Is it because I’m a mere commoner or because you hate the idea of Arthur talking to me?”

“I hate you,” Merlin says, “because you are no mere commoner.”

Mordred stops. Stares. For all of his cajoling and entrapment, he had never expected Merlin to _admit_ it. Granted, Merlin generally shows great impatience with the rules and games of court and politics, but these are the most words Mordred’s ever heard out of Merlin and they are the last words he would have ever expected.

He manages, just barely, to steady his voice, if not his face. “What do you mean? I’m a son of a farmer and a seamstress, I’m just – ”

“A farmer whom Arthur’s knights killed and a seamstress whose home was destroyed during one of Arthur’s battles,” Merlin interrupts impatiently. “You show great skill with the blade, Mordred, but you are dangerous. Out of all these knights, you never earned your place here, and Arthur is blind to your faults because of his guilt. You might be his end, one day, and I cannot stop it because there is no magic that will end my King’s foolish sense of chivalry. So pardon me if I find that I cannot stand the sight of you.”

* * *

Mordred doesn’t remember leaving the hall, making his excuses to a concerned king or drunken fellow knights. He doesn’t remember stumbling to bed, falling into doors and tripping over carpet. He doesn’t even remember going to sleep; he just opens his eyes and sees the sun and knows night has passed him by.

If there’s one thing Mordred is excellent at, it’s knowing when someone is lying.

Merlin was not lying.

* * *

“Who told you this?” 

Arthur is surprisingly calm when Mordred comes into his chambers before breakfast and demands an audience without anyone present. He just finishes belting on his sword and sends his servants away and listens without a flicker of concern on his face.

“Never mind that,” Mordred snarls. “Is it true, Arthur? Did you really just offer me a place here to assuage your guilt?”

“No, of course not,” Arthur says, and Mordred relaxes for exactly two seconds before Arthur continues and makes it a thousand times worse. “I did it because it was no less than I owed to your father.”

“My father was a _farmer_!”

“Your father saved my life,” Arthur replies. “He threw himself in the way of a crossbolt aimed at my heart, and when my knights mistook him for the attacker, we wasted the precious time that could have been used to save his life in return. He was not a citizen of Camelot and owed me nothing, but his last act upon his world was to save me from a horrible death, no matter the consequences. Your father was a hero.”

Mordred wants to scream and shout and maybe throw something. Instead he finds his heart growing cold and still, and he draws himself up and says, as softly as he can, “So all of this – all of this talk of my skill and my potential and my transformation – all of it was because of my father?”

And Arthur, for the first time Mordred’s ever seen, appears to lose his temper. “Can’t you see that everything I’ve done has been to repay him? I honored your father in the only way I could after I failed to come to his aid on time. Don’t you suggest I am unaware of what is right and proper for a king to do for wergild.”

Mordred shuts his eyes. The cloak of the Pendragon feels too tight now, scratchy and strangling where it had once felt comforting. His mail feels heavy, so heavy, and he wishes he could claw it off with his fingernails. His boots, his dagger, his horse, his bed, his rooms – all of it, a lie, just to assuage a King’s honor. He is nothing and nobody, and the worst part is that he knows Arthur does not lie. He thought here, in Camelot of all places, whose son he is would most certainly never matter.

What a beautiful lie it all was.

“I am no hero’s son,” Mordred says, with a calm he does not feel. “And I am no knight of Camelot either.”

* * *

Mordred leaves Camelot on foot, empty-handed and dry-eyed, just as he arrived. He takes the first job he comes across, and then the next, and then the next.

There is no word from Arthur, and that, Mordred supposes, is that.

* * *

And then he finds himself working for what he thought was a small company that ends up being contracted for a bigger company that gets involved with an army, and suddenly Mordred finds himself riding with Orkney banners against Pendragon ones and he doesn’t quite know how he ended up here at all.

Then it gets worse.

“You _will_ fight Arthur,” Morgana Le Fay snarls at him.

Mordred’s first reaction is a resounding _no_. He is a hired sellsword, made for battle and maybe some underhanded nightly sneak attacks. He doesn’t do single combat, and especially not against someone like King Arthur, who bears a sword that makes him essentially undefeatable.

“You know Arthur well. I know you served with my brother once,” Morgana coos at him, circling like a lion stalking a deer. “You know how he fights. You will defeat him, Mordred, and I will emerge victorious.”

“I was hired to fight in a battle, not single combat.”

Morgana’s eyes go golden and furious, and Mordred clutches futilely at his throat as magic strangles the very air in his lungs.

“You were hired to do whatever I want,” she says. “I am the rightful Queen of Camelot, and it is my children who will sit on the throne. So you will take up your sword, and you will defeat my brother, and if not I will bind your limbs with magic and possess you and fight him myself. Of course, I won’t be as concerned if you lose an arm or leg if I fight using you. You might care though.”

Mordred thinks of the power of Excalibur and the protective magic of Excalibur’s scabbard, and chokes out, “I yield!”

He can’t possibly defeat Arthur, since Arthur’s courage won’t fail him, and Excalibur’s scabbard will keep Arthur’s wounds from bleeding. All he has to do is make it look good and give Merlin time to dispatch Morgana – and hope that Arthur won’t kill him in the meantime. It’s probably a very bad plan, but it’s the best Mordred has got.

* * *

Arthur dies, of course. 

If Mordred had paid attention to the stories of the Once and Future King, he might have known in the beginning the plans Morgana had made and the lies she had told; he might have known the significant of Camlann; he might have know the terrible power of two knights clashing on an ancient battlefield using swords forged in blood and magic and emotions as intense as only love and hatred can be.

But he doesn’t know, and so he and Arthur trade blows and injuries until Arthur falls, suddenly, dizzy with blood loss from the gaping wound on his thigh and shoulder, and Mordred is so startled he barely avoids getting stabbed as the armies clash around them.

Then he scrambles to Arthur’s side.

“What sorcery is this?” Mordred demands. “You were supposed to be protected – I thought you said your scabbard would never let you bleed!”

Arthur smiles very faintly at him. “My sister stole it. I thought she might have, when she came to see me in the truce tent, but I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt.” He takes a deep, rattling breath, and Mordred wants to scream with fury at being played like a pawn again. “Don’t worry, Mordred. It was a good death. I don’t blame you.”

“There must be a way to stop this!”

“You cannot stop destiny,” Arthur says. “This is Camlann, Mordred. I was always meant to die here at your hands.”

“If you knew,” Mordred says, “if you knew, why did you come? You could have sent anyone here, Leon or Percival or Kay – anyone! Even that damn sorcerer could’ve fought me.”

But Mordred knows why not. Damn Arthur and his chivalry. Damn Merlin for not stopping him. Damn destiny and magic and Morgana for getting the two of them tangled in her web of hatred and lie s and blood. Damn it all.

“I hate you,” Mordred chokes out.

“You’re a good man. Please,” Arthur breathes, “a favor for a dying man.”

“Anything.”

Arthur gropes at the ground, hands shaking, and it’s so disconcerting that Mordred has to scrub harshly at his eyes before his brain wakes up and he realizes that Arthur is reaching for his sword. 

“I entrust you with Excalibur,” Arthur says, voice faint but still steady, still the King. 

“What the hell am I supposed to do with your sword?”

“Oh,” Arthur smiles, “you’ll know.”

* * *

Afterwards, when the last breath leaves Arthur’s chest, Mordred wants to grieve. He wants to scream and shout and curse. 

But he can’t. His grief is frozen in his chest.

All of his life, he has wanted only to be his own man. And all his life, he has been beholden to someone or something else, a pawn in destiny’s plan. And now destiny has ended the life of perhaps the only man Mordred might ever have bent the knee to as a real king, all for what? For the promise of a return, one distant day when no one alive now might recall him? For songs and stories and legends that may survive into the future? 

So Mordred takes up the damn sword, because he won’t refuse Arthur’s final request, and he looks at the glittering and bloody Excalibur and says, “What should I do with you?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Excalibur says, words like the ringing of bees in his ear, angry and poisonous and full of hatred. “Cast me away, traitor and murderer and thief.”

Just for that, Mordred makes a point of throwing her in to the nearest lake, so she can rot away just like the King she abandoned.

* * *

Merlin is _furious_ when he finds Mordred keeping vigil over Arthur’s body. He is actually glowing, robes flapping madly in the wind and eyes wild with anger, but Mordred just looks at him. He has no energy to spare now.

“Do what you will,” he says dully. “It is done, and damn you all for letting it happen.”

“You,” Merlin spits. “ _You killed my King!_ ”

“Destiny killed your King. Morgana killed your King. I won’t deny my share, but don’t you leave out your own part. I’ve heard your stories of destiny, sorcerer. It’s your own damn fault your King lies dead here.”

The ground grows hot beneath their feet and the sky crackles with lightning. Merlin is the most powerful sorcerer in the world, and Mordred should perhaps feel fear.

Instead, he just closes his eyes.

“May you never find peace again,” Merlin says. “May you never find a home that doesn’t burn to ashes around you, may you never find sleep that isn’t filled with terror, may you never find a place in the world without bloodshed and betrayal. May you live and die and live and die and live and die again and again, until you know just a taste of the suffering you have just inflicted upon the world when you killed my King.”

The pain of the curse is horrendous.

Mordred just takes a deep breath and says, “Then I’ll see you in the next life, sorcerer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we see the flavoring from the Inheritance Cycle, because where there be dragons there are authors who will unconsciously incorporate ideas without realizing it. Specifically, the curse Merlin lays upon Mordred/Eggsy is very similar to the curse the Ra'zac lay upon Eragon.


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin meets Nimueh.

It would be so easy, with magic, to construct Arthur’s pyre and send it off to Avalon.

Merlin does it by hand. 

First is the boat, easily cobbled from the siege machines and wooden pallets the armies brought to bear. Next are the standards, easily put together from the various cloaks the knights donate. Next is the King, whom Merlin lifts and drags and pulls until he is placed perfectly, with only the faint smudges of blood to show that he is not merely sleeping. And finally is the flame, achieved with the use of a bow and flaming arrow. 

“Farewell, my King,” Merlin says, and it burns to say, like inhaling dragon fire. He always knew he would outlive Arthur, because immortal does not mean invincible and there are no stories of Merlin the reincarnating sorcerer, but for it to come so soon . . .

Now he has only endless centuries to look forward to alone, and he has grown used to company.

 _I could come with you,_ Excalibur offers, but her heart is not in it. She does not want company; she wants to make the world bleed for having left her alone.

That is the problem with forging a sentient sword that has only two purposes. Once one purpose is fulfilled, it forever tilts that way. Merlin forged Excalibur for war and peace, but she has known only war and bloodshed and heartache. Now that is all she wants, but Merlin used up all of his rage when he cursed Mordred. He doesn’t regret doing it, but now he feels only the vast emptiness of years of future loneliness where rage carved out a home inside him, and Excalibur will no more fill that hole than cursing Mordred did.

“You and I both know you’re not meant for me,” Merlin tells Excalibur. “You are better off here, in Avalon, to await our King’s return.” Better, he reasons, for Excalibur to be tempered by the waters of time than to travel and accumulate more rage.

_I will not wait forever._

Merlin shrugs. “Humanity is prone to destruction. I imagine the world will need the Once and Future King sooner than later.”

_What will you do, Merlin?_

Merlin looks out at the waters of the Lake of Avalon, and he has no answer. All of his life he has waited for his King. All of his life he has studied and fought and bled for his King. Never did those studies prepare him for a life where he had no King and no purpose besides endless waiting.

“I have an idea,” says the Lady of the Lake, rising from the sea foam as though she fears neither Merlin’s lightning nor Excalibur’s sharp edge. “You are the most powerful sorcerer to walk the earth, Merlin. You have seen and done many things that have never been done before, and quite a few of them may never be done again. It would behoove you to pass that knowledge on.”

“I serve the Once and Future King,” Merlin reminds her. “I do not serve Avalon.”

The Lady of the Lake merely raises an eyebrow. “And when you are gone, Merlin, who will serve your king then?”

Merlin looks away, cursing under his breath. She has a point. Merlin is immortal, but he can die just like anyone else under the right conditions. Arthur will always need a sorcerer at his side to protect him, and his love for Arthur greatly outweighs the selfish beast in his chest that wants to hoard all of his knowledge for his own.

Worst comes to worst, he can at least give his student things to pass on to Arthur when the time comes. 

Still, a part of him remains bitter and growly. He _earned_ his knowledge through trial and fire and blood; why should he just pass it on so easily to whomsoever comes next?

“And you can’t train a sorcerer yourself? Losing your touch, are you?”

“I think I’ll be rather busy,” she returns, casting a pointed gaze to the gently bobbing pyre in the distance. “The Once and Future King’s resting place will not guard itself in Avalon, and you and Excalibur are not yet ready to cross over to our lands yet.”

All excellent points. All still infuriating points.

Merlin sets the grass at his feet on fire, just because he can. His magic is still so disheartened at the death of his King that even the sight of flame brought to life cannot comfort him, except for the faint flicker of surprise that his magic is still here. He always thought it might abandon him to guard his King in Avalon. And, of course, the way the Lady of the Lake flinches back from the fire does lift his mood a little.

When he feels somewhat calmer, he raises his gaze to meet hers again. “I presume you already have someone in mind, then?”

“Their name is Nimueh,” the Lady of the Lake says, and passes onto Merlin the image of a young child with dark hair and the glowing golden eyes of a sorcerer. It would be adorable, if not for the fact that the child’s hair is straggly and falling out in uneven clumps, like magic had raked great claws through the air and taken away strands of hair. “I think you will find them a . . . very interesting challenge.”

The last challenge Merlin had undertaken was to safeguard his King through Camlann. “I suppose I can’t do much worse than I did with my King.”

The Lady of the Lake gazes at him soberly. There’s something in her gaze, something dark and dangerous, but Merlin is too exhausted to care. He’ll sort it all out later.

“Send her to me,” Merlin says.

“You’ll meet them tomorrow at sundown.”

It makes sense – sundown and sunset are when the veil between Avalon and the mortal world is the thinnest for those who don’t require death to pass between the worlds. And then the words register and Merlin says, “Wait, them? I only agreed to one student!”

But the Lady of the Lake is already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand this is all Merlin the BBC show. *sobs* Season 5's ending kinda broke me.


	5. Take Me Up (so i can save the world)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Excalibur took herself up.

And so Merlin leaves Excalibur in the bottom of the Lake of Avalon. He is not worried, and neither is she; she was forged of a sorcerer’s blood and a dragon’s fire and steel from the heavens – mere water blessed by the fae cannot harm her.

The only thing that can truly harm Excalibur is herself, but she is so young, so the thought does not occur to her until Merlin has been gone so long with his newfound student that she no longer remembers how to call him.

Excalibur is _bored_.

Merlin, at least, used to tell her stories. Even Nimueh, tiny and small, would tell Excalibur stories in the old ways, through the lilt of the wind and the ripple of the water, even if it was only to make Merlin stare at her, bemused and concerned. Excalibur never minded; something to focus on was always welcome.

Now, there is nothing. This is the veil between the mortal and immortal worlds – the sun never truly sets or rises, the tide never recedes or returns, the sands never shift or erode. It is just a stepping stone from one place to another, a gateway that stretches through time and space and awareness, and Excalibur is stuck in the middle dreaming of freedom, for the Lady of the Lake and Merlin close the gates behind them and no more travelers pass through. Once Excalibur had been excited, for it had been foretold the gates would open at the return of her King. Now she understands that such a prophecy is a double-edged sword.

So Excalibur _listens_. She sets her heart against the floor of the mortal world and listens to the screams of agony as humans torture and fight and kill, to the laughs of happiness as humans love and play and dance, to the tears and the bloodshed and the prayers and the sacrifice, all of it. And at first, she is content, for this is the story of the humanity she is meant to protect, and she loves them as Merlin and her King did.

Then, of course, the listening gets a little harder. 

Magic begins to drain from the world, either through the sword and flame as sorcerers are burned or by the advancement of cold iron and refined steel as the fairies and the nymphs and the old gods are driven away. 

They come to the gates of Avalon and they beg, they scream and plead and cry, but the Lady of Lake is the only one who could ever hear their pleas, and she never leaves Arthur’s pyre.

Many attempt to invoke Excalibur, but none succeed, for she is meant for a heart of courage, not desperation.

Through them, Excalibur sees a world of devastation – forests laid bare, lakes drained dry, fields burnt to ash – and at first she thinks she understands the price of greatness, for only through great suffering can the Once and Future King be called upon to rise from Avalon and wield her once again.

Then, as centuries pass and the laughter grows dimmer while the screams grow louder, Excalibur understands the true price: sometimes greatness is more legend than truth, and legends will save no one.

Excalibur reaches deep down, deep into the heart where the undying flame that lives in her blade glows, and she reaches out and calls through the earth and sky and sea to her kin. She calls to the dragons and the dryads and the nymphs and the gnomes. She says _Take me up_ but now it is her turn for pleas to fall upon deaf ears.

There is no one to hear her. The dragons are gone. The dryads are gone. The nymphs are gone. The gnomes are gone. The unicorns and the fae and the kelpies, they are all gone.

Excalibur listens to the screams and hears only humans.

 _Where is my King?_ Excalibur says, through waves and winds and flame.

“Resting,” the Lady of the Lake says, as she always does.

_Wake him._

“I cannot. I guard his sleep, and nothing more.”

It is truth, but that does not make it right. Excalibur feels the thunder of war on a thousand shores, feels the blood that pollutes the lakes and streams and oceans, feels the wind shifting to carry a thousand more souls home, and Excalibur says, _What is the point of all this, if not to awaken my King?_

“The point,” the Lady of the Lake says, “is free will. Which I am afraid you do not have and therefore might never understand.”

_What use have I for free will? I have a creator and a purpose and a King. I need nothing more._

“Oh, Excalibur,” the Lady of the Lake sighs. “Even swords must have dreams.”

_I dream of my King._

“No. You dream of death. You were not forged to, but this is what you have become. Perhaps it was a mistake to allow Merlin to forge you. He did not understand what he doing when he lit the undying flame in your heart. You were both so young.”

_I am older than anything upon this earth._

“No,” the Lady of the Lake says. “You are not.”

She says no more, no matter how many times Excalibur asks, so Excalibur turns her attention again to the soil of the mortal world. There are no more screams now, just tears. Some are of joy, but most are of blood and sadness and hatred. Once Excalibur could have known exactly what each tear meant, but the veil has grown harder and harder to hear through as the magic drains away. Now she can only hear echoes off of her kith and kin: a grail, a stone, a fountain, a shield, a staff, a spear, a cloak. Tiny items, so young when forged that they burn with no flame of their own to sustain them, and therefore have no sentience as she does. 

The Grail, of course, can always speak to her. Excalibur might call Mjölnir and the Fountain of Youth cousins, but the Grail is blood kin, forged for Camelot as she was.

_We are so old now. I wonder that we ever thought we knew this world. Humans have changed it beyond recognition._

_Humans have never changed,_ the Grail laughs. _They are as wondrous and terrible as they always were._

_We must agree to disagree. There walks no one upon this earth from your side of the veil that could agree with you._

_There is one other. He has been here since the beginning, as we all were._

And Excalibur remembers all at once the stench of fire and blood and fury upon Merlin when he came to her, drenched in the blood of her King and her killer, and the curse Merlin had laid upon him.

And if Mordred lives – if Mordred walks the earth and breaks the bread and drinks the water – then humanity will never be safe, for Mordred will build it all up just to tear it down upon her King’s head the moment he wakes.

 _Do not do anything unwise,_ the Grail says. _We are instruments of fate, not weavers._

 _Perhaps,_ Excalibur says, _it is time to change that._

* * *

There are no more dragons or nymphs or gnomes who could wield Excalibur any longer. Excalibur was meant for two wielders and two wielders alone, and she is determined to never feel the touch of one of them.

But Excalibur was forged of blood and magic and love. At her heart she is steel made flesh and flame made heart.

Excalibur looks to mortal shores and sees a creature, four legged and stripped with black and brown and graced with a horns upon its head. It is young and strong and blood pumps through its veins as though it will never die. Excalibur sings through the waves and the wind, and the creature’s head lifts.

_Take me up._

The creature wrinkles its nose. It has no magic, so it cannot truly understand, but it also cannot truly escape either.

 _Take me up,_ Excalibur says, and she imbues every syllable with the undying flame of her creation, the pyre that turned her from formless thought and prayer to a weapon fit only for the greatest king in all the land.

The creature lowers its head and takes her in its teeth.

* * *

The creature dies a swift death. Excalibur dances in the waves and slits her throat, and just as blood baptized Excalibur from metal to sword, blood baptizes Excalibur from instrument to weaver with two legs of her own. They don’t look human, for no mortal creature’s blood could disguise the steel bathed in dragon fire that makes up her legs, but it is enough to walk in the human world and so Excalibur is content.

When she reaches the human world, shivering and dirty, the humans clothe her and feed her and question her.

“Who are you?” they ask. “Where did you come from? Why are you here? What is your name?”

Excalibur thinks of the creature that died to give her life, and she says, “My name is Gazelle.”

* * *

Finding one immortal man is a lot harder than it sounds. If he were immortal by gift, like her and the Grail, she could find him in an instant, but Mordred is immortal by curse and by rhyme. He fades in and out, like a breeze upon the grass, always nearly touching and yet never quite there. She follows him to the deserts and the canyons and the forests and the seas and the plains and the mountains, but she only ever finds his graves and his footsteps and his abandoned, hollowed out houses.

If Mordred had a heart, she might have said he was mourning.

He has no family, no wife or husband or children. He has no friends, no brothers-in-arms or shield-maidens. He has no career or money or legacy. He drifts like a seed upon the wind, as if pretending that he did not murder her beloved King absolves him of the crime.

Excalibur looks for Merlin too, of course. He could find Mordred in an instant, for a curse binds the caster and the victim, but her bond with Merlin has grown small, withered away by age and grief and distance, and when she calls there is no answer. The Lady of the Lake will not answer her either, for her voice cannot cross the veil and Excalibur has no desire to return to the waters of Avalon. She cannot even find Nimueh, who once gleamed across her senses like a comet in the sky until they flared and burnt out and went silent.

Yet Excalibur still has faith. Still she looks. And still she waits.

* * *

Another war comes to pass while Excalibur walks the earth. Each step feels like dragon fire against her heart as the waters of the world fill with blood and the earth fills with bodies and the wind fills with souls. Yet when she presses against the closest stream, there is no triumphant cry, no clanging of the gates thrown open, no joyous shouts of celebration.

No Once and Future King reborn, determined to make it right.

Yet the world needs her King. It needs her King so desperately that she cannot fathom how he still sleeps. In this shell-shocked, war-torn world, she knows that if Mordred were but to move a few chess pieces here and there, he could control the world so easily.

So Excalibur goes home. She takes a plane and breathes a sigh of relief when she reaches the shores of Albion once again.

Then she begins to plan.

If a calamity is what is necessary to bring her King back to ensure Mordred dies once and for all, then it is a calamity Excalibur will provide. She will finish the burning of the world to ash that Mordred started when he slew her King, and when her King arises he will face a clean world for him to build anew in Albion’s image, as it always should have been.

 _Are you certain, blood of my own?_ the Grail asks.

_I will serve my King. I will make a new world for us. I will ensure Mordred never comes to power._

_There are those of us who will stand in your way._

Excalibur tilts her head. People are staring at her, of course, for she seems to be speaking to a wall, but a slight ship of her gleaming legs sends their eyes scattering to the ground. Even in this disguise, humans always know there is something not quite right about her. They can never say what, but in their heart of hearts, every human feels fear in the presence of the weapon of the Once and Future King King.

 _Let them,_ Excalibur says. _I was forged before the Horn of the Apocalypse and the Hammer of Ragnarok and the Door of Night. If they wish to stand against me, then they stand against my King and my King can never be defeated whilst I am with him._

The Grail says, _So be it._

“So be it,” Excalibur says, and does not cry when she feels her blood-kin break the bond between them.

* * *

Excalibur travels again, but although she keeps an eye out for Mordred, she no longer obsessively tracks him. Instead she offers her services to warlords and pirates and kings and politicians, forging connections and evaluating potential allies. Many she finds too weak or too corrupted or too blind to do what must be done. Even more she leaves bleeding and choking on the ground, until she has gained a reputation.

“Gazelle, right?”

Gazelle smoothes a cloth down her leg. It is clean and sharp, for Excalibur cannot be weakened by something so insignificant as mortal blood, but the display is still intimidating enough to serve her purposes. “Depends who’s asking,” she replies.

A man sits next to her. He has glasses, bright gold pants, and a baseball cap. He appears not the least bit frightened of her. “My name is Richmond Valentine. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

“Well, you haven’t left me bleeding on the floor, so I imagine so.”

Gazelle taps a finger against her blade. “That doesn’t mean it’s off the table. You get five minutes, Mr. Richmond Valentine.”

“I hear you want to save the world,” Valentine says. “I want you to help me do that.”

* * *

Valentine isn’t perfect. He has a tendency to go off on strange tangents and demand she experience things he assumes she missed out in her childhood, like riding a bike or eating an entire pint of ice cream. When he gets too excited, he can talk so quickly that she understands more of his message by his tone than his words. And sometimes he treats every situation as something that money can solve, as opposed to bargaining or blackmailing.

But he has a solid message and an even more solid method for fixing the world, so Excalibur goes along with him. It’s a lot easier when people imagine that Valentine built her prosthetic legs instead of constantly asking her questions about them.

Every day, Valentine goes out and inspires a new person to join the cause, and every night, Excalibur puts her hand in the water and listens to see if her King has awoken. 

Valentine’s bunker swells with people, princesses and singers and football players. Excalibur watches them all, and quietly disposes of those who are not fit for the new world her King will lead. Valentine always asks her opinion, after all.

* * *

Then comes Harry Hart. Excalibur isn’t sure what to make of him. On paper, he would be a good addition – rich but not arrogant, confident but not narcissistic, young but not so young. Valentine wants to kidnap him the same night to ensure he cooperates, but Excalibur coaxes him out of it and decides to follow him instead.

Because Harry Hart smells of the Old Religion – of blood and fire and the pure stinging power of magic – and that can only mean one thing: Mordred is near.

* * *

Mordred is . . . not what she expected.

He is a child, wearing an atrociously eye-searing outfit and big winged shoes, and he can hardly meet her eyes without looking at the floor. He does not strike her in a preemptive attack and he does not even speak to her. Of course, appearances can be deceiving. 

At least he obeys the rules of a summoning.

“Excalibur,” Mordred says, his accent as terrible as his clothing. “So you’ve seen fit to join us lowly mortals.”

“You and I are both so much more than that.”

Mordred shrugs. “Perhaps I might’ve been, once. I’ve lived a thousand lives, Excalibur, over and over again. I’ve been as rich as you can get and as poor as you can get, as old and as young, as sick and as healthy. With Merlin’s curse, I’m as mortal as any of these other poor sods here.”

“And you seek to end the cycle?”

“Nah, I like being alive.” Mordred straightens then, the shadows deepening on his forehead as he drags his hands out of his pockets. His mocking smile tightens. “You, on the other hand, seem to be trying to burn the entire damn world down.”

Excalibur matches him smile for smile. “I’m trying to save the world.”

“Yeah, right. You helped Valentine blow a man’s head off and put Harry in a coma for months. You can’t save a world by blowing it up, Excalibur. I would know.”

“And the world paid for that knowledge,” Excalibur snarls. “ _You killed my King._ ”

“Our King,” Mordred says. “Don’t you downplay it. He was my King too. I loved him.”

“And yet you cut him down.”

“And yet I’m not the one trying to destroy the world now, am I? Arthur loved this world, Excalibur, and you’re trying to burn it down. I don’t care what reasons you have for doing it. It’s not right. I’ll stop you if I have to. You know I can.”

Excalibur looks at him, truly and deeply looks. His eyes are tired, so tired, and his shoulders slump and his soul is darkened with pain and regret. Merlin’s curse has taken its toll. And perhaps once he might have been able to stand against her on his own, but back then he was Mordred, Kingslayer of destiny, and she was Excalibur, mere instrument of destiny. Now she weaves her own fate.

“Destiny is on my side this time, Mordred,” Excalibur says. “I won’t tell you to get out of my way, because you’ll be dead at my feet when this is over, but cross me and I’ll kill your mother and your sister and your Harry Hart. You know I can.”

Mordred, for the first time, seems to come to life. Perhaps it is the threat against his family or perhaps it is the knowledge that she had been watching as he tried not to watch Harry Hart, but either way he glares at her. His hands clench into fists and his legs tense and his soul burns with rage. For a short time, he looks as she remembers him, raging on the battlefield against her King. “I know how to unforge you, Excalibur,” he says. “Don’t make me use that knowledge.”

“Go ahead and try,” Excalibur tells him, and walks away.

* * *

She puts the gun in Valentine’s head and lets him shoot Harry Hart. It feels better, this way, to make Mordred watch as her ally slaughters his.

It hardly matters if the man lives or if he dies. She knows it’ll bring Mordred to her regardless. And then she can finally end the threat of the Kingslayer once and for all, so that her King may rule without fear or end in the second coming of the Golden Age.

She can hardly wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this . . . has no particular inspiration behind it, BUT this is where the whole story started. Literally me just watching that fight scene with Eggsy and Gazelle and going, "But like . . . what if Gazelle was Excalibur and Eggsy was Mordred?"
> 
> Although yes, those are references to Thor and Supernatural and LOTR, we have already learned I absorb ideas without blinking lol.


	6. Cast Me Away (so that the world might live)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mordred cast away Excalibur

Eggsy has been many things under Merlin’s curse – a soldier, a king, a weaver, a farmer, a scribe, a priest, a politician, a slave – but he prefers it most when he is exactly like he was in the beginning: a commoner with no title or estate to his name. Being a poor lad in the estates isn’t the greatest thing one could hope for, but modern ages have brought along a lot of cool stuff. Cars are amazing.

They’re especially amazing when they allow him to outpace Excalibur on her quest for justice. Or vengeance. Eggsy’s kind of lost count of how many times she’s hunted him down.

He’s just about ready to hope that he’s finally given her the slip when he trots out of the police station and gets a good long whiff of fire and blood. The Old Religion mostly died out when magic started draining from the world, but Eggsy would know the scent of it anywhere.

In an instant, he flips through his options: run, fight, die, hide. There aren’t many. Anyone who can maintain that powerful scent of old magic is likely stronger than Eggsy is, and Merlin’s curse makes it damn near impossible to muster the urge to strike down anyone else. He’s died so many times now, by illness and sword and arrow and axe and stone and bullet and bomb. Honestly, what’s one more time?

Only it’s not Excalibur when Eggsy turns out.

His first thought is Merlin – but Merlin would’ve killed him in an instant. His second thought is Merlin’s student, a person called Nimueh that he’s heard whispers about, but any student of Merlin would also probably strike him down. Which leaves . . . really, Eggsy’s not sure who it leaves.

The man says, “Need a lift?”

Eggsy says, “Who the hell are you?”

And the man says, “The man who got you released.”

Except.

The man lifts his umbrella like he’s drawing a sword and tilts his shoulders against the wall, and Eggsy knows without even asking who he’s come across. There’s only one person in the entire world who moves like that, with that grace, with that power, with that kind of magic running in his veins from birth and Eggsy was trained by that man.

 _Arthur,_ Eggsy thinks, half hysterical and half furious.

* * *

It turns out Arthur is still a bit of an elitist prick, though. Eggsy unloads on him, just because he can, and because he still can’t believe that he’s not dreaming. The Once and Future King is back, and it kind of sucks because that means they’re probably about to undergo a massive crisis that necessitates the return of Albion’s greatest High King, but Eggsy mourned Arthur for a thousand lifetimes so he’ll take what he can get

“Harry Hart” though. Seriously. He’ll have to have a talk with whoever convinced Arthur to take up that alias.

Then come the goons, and Eggsy tries to get Arthur to leave because the last thing he needs is to make sure that Arthur gets the exact same impression on him as last time: being beaten up, whether verbally or physically, by a bunch of goons. Last time Arthur had just sat there and glared at them until they left, but last time Arthur had had a crown and a big scary sword.

This time Arthur just beats the absolute crap out of them with his umbrella.

“Um . . . I don’t really think you were supposed to do that,” Eggsy ventures, after a long moment of staring at his reborn King downing his glass in that smug way only kings can.

“Manners are a vital lesson for anyone to learn,” Arthur says primly.

“Yeah, but like . . . you didn’t need to beat them up for me. I could’ve taken it.” Eggsy’s taken a lifelong reincarnation curse from the most powerful sorcerer in the world to his soul; a petty beating wouldn’t have even come close. 

Arthur raises an eyebrow, like Eggsy’s just said something terribly stupid. “That was not why I did what I did. I don’t doubt your strength, Eggsy. But you shouldn’t have to take it. No one should.”

And damn it all, this is why Eggsy fell in love with the prick the first time. He doesn’t get a right to do that to Eggsy’s heart again a second time, except apparently he does. He’s just so damn _righteous_ and when you’ve been crawling around in the muck for the last few millennium even the smallest sunbeam of righteous is more addicting than any amount of wealth or power. 

So when Arthur offers him a new chance to serve, of course Eggsy takes it. He knows he can never atone for his mistakes, but he can’t stop himself.

This is his _King_ , the only person in the entire world that Eggsy has chosen to love and follow. Even into bad Camelot puns like this Kingsman thing that Arthur’s got himself tangled up into.

* * *

Eggsy does have a bit of a heart attack when their trainer turns up and calls themselves Merlin, but they doesn’t stink of the Old Religion. Eggsy puts it down to more instances of destiny laughing at him and lets it go.

* * *

And then Arthur is lying unconscious in a bed, and Eggsy wants to scream and snarl. Merlin tells him to “make Harry proud” and Eggsy almost wants to laugh, because if there’s one thing he can’t possibly do, it’s that. Harry will never be proud of him, because underneath that mortal skin, he’s King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot. Even if for some reason he doesn’t remember things the way Eggsy does, it doesn’t erase what Eggsy did.

What Mordred did.

He wants to blame Merlin’s curse for giving him a taste of his King and then taking him away, but he knows that Merlin would never harm his King and neither would his magic. He’ll never forgive Merlin for letting Arthur step out onto the battlefields of Camlann knowing damn well what fate had foretold to happen there, but he isn’t so blind as to misunderstand Merlin’s rage. Merlin loved their King too.

So Eggsy just sighs and carries on training. Maybe Arthur will wake up and maybe he won’t, but Eggsy long ago decided that if he was going to live forever, he might as well make use of his time. He chooses a path and sticks to it, and apparently in this life, he’s going to be a spy.

* * *

Of course, then Chester bloody King asks him to shoot JB, and Eggsy refuses because once upon a time, he was a Knight of Camelot and no Knight of Camelot would ever shoot a defenseless creature. Once upon a time, Arthur had given them all heart attacks by getting on his knees and cooing at a raging baby dragon; no matter the rationale, he can never imagine serving someone who would expect him to commit murder just because they asked.

He’s just not expecting _Arthur_ of all people to be the one most angered by it.

“You,” Eggsy says, half gasping because his brain is melting and his heart is cracking, “you shot a dog just to get a _job_?”

“Yes I did,” Arthur says, incandescent and furious in a way Eggsy’s never seen him, “And Mr. Pickle here reminds of that every time I take a shit!”

Eggsy looks at the dog, at Arthur, at the dog, and at Arthur. Something isn’t adding up. He could never imagine his King doing this. Arthur would never harm a living creature without a damn good reason. He certainly would not have then stuffed said living creature. “You shot your dog and then had it stuffed?”

Arthur sighs so loudly it’s like he thinks he’ll win a Guinness world record. “No, I shot my dog and then I brought him home and continued to care for him for the next 11 years until he died of pancreatitis.”

“What,” Eggsy says, because it just doesn’t compute. Did Merlin cast another bloody reincarnation curse?

“It was a blank, Eggsy.” The rage drains from Arthur then, a slow seep of tension that Eggsy knows so intimately. “Just a blank. Remember Amelia?”

How could Eggsy have forgotten her? He’d punched a wall afterwards until he bled, full of rage at failing on his first night there, and then he’d had to suffer a long and awkward discussion with Merlin about his psychological fitness for Kingsman. It had mostly been very unproductive, because he couldn’t very well tell Merlin that the source of his rage was the burning bonfire of a thousand years of failing to save the families he’d formed for himself over his many lifetimes. 

“She didn’t drown,” Arthur says patiently. “She works in our tech department in Berlin. She’s fine. Limits must be tested, Eggsy. A Kingsman only condones the risking of a life to save another.”

“And what life was I saving by choosing to shoot JB?” Eggsy snaps, because he can’t believe Arthur’s actually spouting this nonsense. If serving under Arthur in today’s world means shooting innocents, well, there’s Eggsy’s limited tested and found right there. “At least my dad chose to die to save other people like you!”

Arthur’s face does something strange then, like a cross between a grimace and a sigh. “Can’t you see,” Arthur says, “that everything I’ve done has been about trying to repay him?”

And yeah, Eggsy had mourned the death of his father in this life. He’d loved his da for playing with him and dancing with his mom and singing silly songs to put him to sleep. He’d blamed his father’s death on Merlin’s curse, but he’d never imagined that for a second time, he’d be nothing more to Arthur than a debt to be repaid. 

When Arthur leaves, Eggsy crumbles to the floor.

* * *

He’s always known that Arthur would never put him first. First came Camelot, because Arthur was the King. Second came Guinevere and Merlin, because they were Arthur’s left and right hands. Third came Arthur’s Round Table, and Eggsy had for a brief time counted himself amongst those members.

Eggsy has loved Arthur for a thousand lifetimes, and he’s always accepted the pain of knowing Arthur will never love him the same way back.

He’s not really prepared for how to face the fact that he’s always been nothing more than a life debt to Arthur. The idea doesn’t burn or cut or scrape. It just is, a dark hollow that threatens to swallow him whole, because honestly Arthur would be far better off if Eggsy had never been his responsibility. Eggsy defeated Arthur once, but only because Arthur trained him. On his own he never would have stood a chance, even discounting Excalibur.

Eggsy thinks of Excalibur’s plans, and for a long moment he’s tempted to just lie here and let her win. He could just let her burn the whole world down and then slit his throat, because dying his final death at her hands would certainly hurt less than his gaping hole in his soul.

Then he thinks of his mother and Daisy and Jamal and Ryan and Roxy and Merlin and, well. They don’t deserve a terrible death, because Eggsy knows Excalibur will show no mercy. He made a promise to stop her, and he has to keep it, because giving up Camelot’s cloak didn’t make him any less of a knight of the people. It certainly didn’t make him any less of Arthur’s knight.

So Eggsy takes a deep breath and then he stands back up, because he’ll never be Arthur’s beloved but he certainly never stop being Arthur’s knight. He’ll save the world even if he has to duel Excalibur himself.

* * *

Then he watches as Valentine shoots Arthur in the face, and the pain should be insignificant when added to his mountain of pains, but it’s not, it burns and howls deep in his chest and the only reason Eggsy doesn’t destroy the laptop is because he can’t bear to destroy something Arthur clearly put a lot work into.

Destiny had told him Arthur would only ever perish by _his_ hand, and it had been a relief to know.

Arthur is the only person Eggsy has held onto through thousands of lifetimes, the only person he’s ever sworn to serve and obey, the only person Eggsy has ever hated as much as he loved. He’s not Eggsy’s everything, but the world is significantly less acceptable to live in without him.

So Eggsy gets his gun and his sword, and Eggsy goes to war.

* * *

“Do you know what this is?” Chester King says smugly, pen in hand and smile firmly in place.

“Of course I do,” Eggsy says. He leans forward, because he is done with games and destiny and most importantly with people trying to kill him with magic. “Let’s be done with the games, shall we? You click it, I die. Did you get tired of watching me be reborn, Merlin?”

For a long moment, there is silence.

Then Chester’s face transforms, and there’s such hatred upon it that Eggsy also wants to laugh. How he ever could have mistaken this visceral hatred as the petty concerns of one mortal man is beyond him.

“How _dare_ you,” Merlin says, all glowing golden eyes and immortal. “How dare you address me as such.”

Eggsy shrugs. “Merlin, I never showed you any respect back when you were the King’s left hand and court sorcerer. You think I would show any more respect now that you’re a doddering old fool, clinging to poison and consorting in shadows? You’ve lost your touch. Not your brains, though. You lost those a long time ago.”

Merlin nearly spits at him. It’s no curse though; just regular mortal fury. Apparently even Merlin hadn’t survived the draining of magic from the world, which explains why Eggsy never caught the scent of the Old Religion on him. It also explains why Eggsy is still standing and not a pile of lightning smoked ash, but given that Merlin just tried to poison him, he’s not exactly going to say Merlin’s demeanor has improved.

“What’s that?” Eggsy says cheerfully. “Can’t get it up? Are those eyes just for show then? What a pity. You were so talented once.”

“I killed you once.”

“Yeeaaahhhhh.” Eggsy lifts a hand and examines it carefully. “And yet here I am, still alive. Not exactly doing a bang-up job of killing me, are you?”

“I just need to click this pen and you die all over again.”

“So go ahead,” Eggsy says, because Merlin’s golden eyes have nothing on the burning, aching rage that dwells in Eggsy’s chest. “Go ahead and kill me. That way when you finally drop dead, you little pompous shriveled old man, I can be right at the gates to knock your teeth out for letting our King die for a second time.”

Merlin says, “What.”

“Our – No, you don’t get that right anymore. My _King_ ,” Eggsy corrects, just to see Merlin’s glare again. “My King, and you let him die just to prove a point.”

“That was a long time ago and destiny – ”

“That was a bloody hour ago, you moron!” Eggsy yells. “You sent Harry to Kentucky to die and you ain’t even got the decency to be ashamed about it! So yeah, go ahead and kill me, Merlin, click that pen and watch me know and you do it knowing that when _you_ die, I’ll be waiting for the privilege of turning you away from the gates of Avalon forever.”

Merlin blinks at him, mouth open. It’s like he never imagined what it would be to see Eggsy as murderously angry as he once accused Eggsy of always being, especially when Arthur died. “You . . . You’re lying.”

“I know my King,” Eggsy snarls. “I will always know him. You? Apparently not. I guess it’s a toss up whether your magic or your honor deserted you first, you coward.”

Merlin clicks the pen.

When he starts to choke, Eggsy smiles at him, as calm and collected as Merlin first smiled at him. “See, the thing about us common folk is that we’re light-fingered,” he tells Merlin. “You and Arthur, you taught me a lot, but sleight of hand? I learned that a long time before I joined the Table. You never should have let your hate blind you to the fact that there’s a reason us commoners survived without the advantages magic and nobility gave you, and the reason isn’t blind dumb luck.”

Merlin, Eggsy knows, has done a lot of things in the name of Camelot and Arthur, but sleight of hand was never one of them. And why would Merlin need to? He had magic, once. He never imagined that commoners had their own magic, their own grit, their own ability to learn and adapt and evolve.

Merlin dies. 

Eggsy walks out with a pen, a phone, and a SIM card that stinks of the Old Religion.

* * *

Seeing Gazelle and Valentine in person for the first time – really truly seeing them, with the scent of blood and fire and old magic all around them – makes so many things click into place for Eggsy. He’d been wondering just how exactly Excalibur had given herself a human form and why exactly she’d chosen to ally herself with some random, if devoted, man.

Like all calls to like.

“Really?” Eggsy says, dodging another furious kick. “You traded your sense of purpose for _this_? This human shell?”

Excalibur snarls at him. She’s an excellent fighter, as she’s honed her skills fighting in a human body the same way Eggsy has, but they’re both entering at a disadvantage. No one knows fighting as intimately as Excalibur, since she was gifted to never lose, so Eggsy is constantly suffering as she gets past his guard, but on the other hand, Eggsy was never meant to die by Excalibur’s hand alone, so Excalibur is constantly finding herself drawing up just a little short of the final killing blow.

“It was necessary,” Excalibur says. “This world needs King Arthur to lead it, and if two world wars were not enough, then I would invent a way to _make_ it necessary for my King to awaken. I refused to be just another instrument of fate any longer, so I made myself a new path. They say necessity is the mother of invention, but I have surpassed that, Mordred. I became the mother of necessity, and I _will_ see my King into the next Golden Age.”

Eggsy jumps over a decapitated body and grabs at the table for anything to use as a weapon against Excalibur’s blades. “This is your Golden Age? People rioting in the streets and idiots getting their heads blown off?”

Excalibur punches him in the face and laughs. “Since when have you cared about humanity?”

“Since I was born. I am human, you know,” Eggsy tells her, lifting his fists and planting his feet. There’s an idea forming in his head, because if Excalibur traded her sense of power and her place as an instrument of fate for a mortal shell and free will, then she made herself human and all humans can die. And maybe Eggsy’s out of guns and swords, but he has something far deadlier in his shoe. “I won’t let you destroy humanity on my watch.”

“How ironic is this?” Excalibur says softly, rolling to her feet with the ease of a gazelle. “I am Arthur’s sword, forged to protect humanity at all costs. You are Athur’s bane, born to destroy humanity at all costs. And yet here we are, fighting on opposite sides.”

Eggsy squints at her. “Are you . . . Are you trying to _recruit_ me?”

“No. You know what happens to things fighting on the opposite side of me, Mordred. I’m telling you that you’re going to die.”

Then she launches herself at him, fire and fury trailing her wake, and for a moment, Eggsy beholds her as he did the first time he saw her: powerful and glorious and possessed of divine purpose, the deadliest weapon ever forged, born of love and blood and fire and the pure power of the Old Religion. 

But then light shifts, and she’s just . . . human. Mortal. 

Eggsy takes a running start and throws himself into the air too, and thinks about the click of a pen that ended Merlin’s life, the click of a gun trigger that ended Harry’s, and the click of a shoe that’s about to end Excalibur’s. It seems fitting, like a clock ticking down the path of destiny, and it’s all too easy for Eggsy to roll his body and extend his foot just enough to catch Excalibur on the arm as she passes by him in the air.

As she gasps and writhes on the ground, Eggsy leans over her, careful to speak low enough that Merlin cannot hear over the deafening music.

“See, Excalibur,” Eggsy says, “the thing about trading purpose for free will is that humans make mistakes. I made mistakes. Merlin made mistakes. Even our King made mistakes. You just made a mistake, and it’s about to change you forever. I hope you remember that, after you finish cussing me out.”

Then Eggsy takes Excalibur’s blade up for only the second time in his life and throws it straight at Valentine’s back.

And Valentine says, “Hey, man, what’s up?” like he thinks Eggsy is a fool, but Eggsy is not. 

“Drop the act,” Eggsy demands. “I served under King Arthur and Morgana le Fay; you really think I don’t know what magic of the Old Religion feels like?”

Valentine’s face twitches, just slightly, until Eggsy pokes him with the poison blade. Then his whole face crumples as he yelps in shock and the old magic makes itself known in shimmering golden sigils tracing around his entire body. Eggsy never learned the old tongue, but he knows enough from the blood that’s been shed.

“So you gave up your purpose too? Seriously, what’s wrong with being a regular old Holy Grail?”

Valentine smiles, and the blood around him begins to vanish as it soaks into the golden net of magic around him. Eggsy can already begin to see the threads of his true form underneath his chosen human shell. 

“You already know the answer to that, Kingslayer,” Valentine says. “We were instruments of destiny, but we were sentient instruments. Our creators poured so much into us that we were given every element of free will except the actual ability to utilize it. Do you know how terrible it is, to hold the fate of every human you come across in your hands but not be able to stop them? We were all given two purposes, but the problem of forging a sentient creation is that once one purpose in fulfilled, we forever tilt in that direction. The first thing the Once and Future King ever did with Excalibur was go to war; and so all Excalibur will ever know favor is war. And the first thing the High Priestesses ever did with me was drain the life of a mother to give life to a son; and so, all I ever know is the pain of death for life. I traded my purpose for _agency_ , Mordred. I wished to know those that I would sacrifice in the name of peace.”

“Well, congratulations,” Eggsy says bitterly. “You got your free will, and so did Excalibur. And now half the damn world is in flames because of you and your free will and your damn SIM cards.”

“They were an excellent idea, yes. Much easier to trade SIM cards than take a drop of blood for every human in the world.” Valentine clutches at Excalibur’s blade. “Are you going to make sure I die now, Kingslayer?”

Eggsy tightens his tie and fixes his cuffs. Merlin probably is now terribly confused by their conversation, but – 

“No,” Merlin says, from right behind Eggsy. “I will make sure.”

“Um,” Eggsy says intelligently.

Valentine goes incredibly still. “Nimueh,” he breathes, like a benediction and curse word both.

And Eggsy whips around, because he knows he missed spotting that Chester King was the Merlin of old because the man’s magic had drained away, right now Merlin is absolutely _glowing_ with magic. Their eyes burn like the sun, their fingers shine like the stars, and golden curls of soft light drip off of them and float like little lanterns. 

“What the actual hell,” Eggsy says.

“I apologize for the deception, Eggsy,” Merlin-Nimueh says. “When I broke from Merlin, I was injured very badly. I’ve kept myself . . . tamped down, I suppose you might say, to protect myself. I’ve been looking for Merlin for a long time and I do thank you for helping me ensure he cannot hurt anyone else.”

Eggsy waves a somewhat hysterical hand at the still figure of Excalibur in the distance. Excalibur would have been just as deadly to a sorcerer as to Eggsy, but magic probably would have helped. Like a lot. 

“And you couldn’t have helped me to clear the bunker or fight off Excalibur because . . . ?”

“Excalibur was Merlin’s,” they say simply. “Plus I think you had it well in hand. I trained you well enough.”

“Sorcerers,” Eggsy mutters.

Merlin ignores him because of course they do. “You took a grave price from the world,” they tell Valentine, kneeling down and placing one strong hand over the wound Excalibur made in his chest. “I would demand a gift to balance the scales. It is not right for one human to carry such power.”

“I am the Holy Grail.”

“You were. Now you are human. The Grail could have held such power, to keep an undead army upon its feet past the call of death, but you are human now. You must yield it.”

“And what will you do with it, sorcerer?” Valentine says, and his voice has a power that makes Eggsy want to draw his gun and aim it, because that is the power of the Old Religion, the power to compel truth and cast down castles and destroy armies. “I know you, Nimueh, for I have tasted your blood. I know everything you desire and everything you fear. Tell me, Nimueh, if I give you the power of the thousands who have just died, what shall you do with it?”

They hesitate.

Valentine adds, “I can no longer compel you, that is true. But I would ask.”

They take a deep breath, and Nimueh says, “I would see our King restored. The world needs him now, thanks to you and Excalibur.”

“You will not take revenge upon your teacher? Merlin wounded you badly, last I had heard. Or perhaps upon the young Kingslayer here? He does know your secret now.”

“No,” Nimueh says. “Justice for what Merlin did to me is not for me to administer. And I will need Mordred’s help to in rebuilding this world. I will restore the High King, and I will serve him faithfully as Merlin did before me, and I will try to help put the world back to rights as best I can. That is what I will do with your gift.”

“Then take it,” Valentine says, and although it’s less of words physically spoken and more glowing golden liquid, pouring into the air as Nimueh waves their hand and gathers it in a basket woven of magical strands that harden and turn to glass as they make contact. As more golden liquid pours out, Valentine begins to grow fuzzier and fuzzier, until his human shape collapses completely and the only thing left behind is an emptied golden cup. Glyphs on the cup are still glowing where they’re in contact with the pool of blood around it, but they begin to flicker and fade until Nimueh caps the flask and everything goes quiet.

Nimueh takes one look at Eggsy’s face and snaps, “Oh, shut your mouth, you look ridiculous.”

“You’re a sorcerer,” Eggsy says faintly.

“I’m not presently planning to kill you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Well, I wasn’t until now.”

“Shut up and get on the plane. Storytelling is so tedious, and I’m not doing it without something more engaging to occupy me. Especially since you’ve been out of the loop for the past couple of millennia.”

“Don’t remind me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who did watch the Merlin BBC show, the Holy Grail is acting like the Cup of Life because we can only have so many magical cups. For those of you who didn't, in the show, the Cup of Life gave immortality when someone gave it one drop of blood. But it wasn't immortal like "you'll never die"; it was immortal like you gave your death to the Cup itself, so you were already dead, which is why nothing could kill you again as long as your blood remained in the Cup. If however the Cup is knocked over, well - then you just dropped dead. Explosively, in the show, actually.


	7. Epilogue

Nimueh does as destiny foretold: they take Merlin to the Lake of Avalon, bind him in stone, and then coax a tree to grow around him. Merlin dreams, deep and uninterrupted, as the tree’s trunk closes him inside and the roots dig deep into the waters as the branches rise towards the sky.

The Lady of the Lake drifts to shore on a gentle wave.

“Hello, Nimueh.”

Nimueh looks at the woman who raised them and then gave them to Merlin, and they say nothing.

“Are you still angry with me?”

Nimueh takes a deep breath. “Merlin hurt me. Merlin threatened to drain my magic if I didn’t stop being, in his words, unnatural, and all you did was tell me to carry on.” They feel the familiar rage boiling up, matted and mutated from years of being carried deep within their heart, and all around them little sparks of gold take flight and dance in the wind.

“Did you fail to carry on?”

“I should not have had to carry on,” Nimueh says. “We have always been welcome in Avalon, no matter our orientation or identity or belief.”

“But not in Camelot.”

“Are you excusing Merlin’s behavior?”

“No. I am explaining it.” The Lady of Lake makes to reach out, and then seems to think better of it. “We all knew that Camelot was mighty. But it was flawed. We hoped that with better ambassadors of the world, when Camelot rose again it would be a better Camelot. One that could accept everyone without judgment or expectation.”

“So I was a lesson. That’s not much better.”

“Merlin was _your_ lesson. You have learned all about magic that you need to know, as well as the cruelty of the ignorant and the hateful. Now you have all the tools you need to be Arthur’s left hand and to ensure that everyone in Camelot is treated as they should be.”

Nimueh feels the rage begin to dim. It is there, still burning, but the Lady of the Lake has been cryptic since the start and a staunch supporter in doing anything in the name of destiny. Arguing with her will gain them nothing.

“Just – watch over Merlin. I’ve got a King to revive.”

* * *

Eggsy takes Excalibur and the Grail to an island far, far away. It is plotted on no map and spoken of in no stories, because it was formed with magic and magic alone sustains it. Nimueh tells him that the island had been constructed by Merlin himself to forge Excalibur, which makes it a good of a resting place as anywhere else.

For the Grail, Eggsy seals it in the halls of Merlin’s ancient home, which permits only the worthiest and purest of heart entry. It glows dimly at him as he sets it down, and he ensures there is no more blood inside before he departs.

It isn’t a permanent fix, because Eggsy knows there are still legends unfulfilled about the Grail, but it will keep the Grail anchored until the time comes. 

For Excalibur, Eggsy finds the great stones that had once comprised the forge built on ancient trees and sustained with dragon fire and quenched with blood. Most have crumbled and fallen apart, but one great stone remains, round and rough and covered in stains. Eggsy slides his hand down Excalibur’s blade to let his blood fall freely upon it, and when the stone comes to life with molten fire, he slides Excalibur smoothly down until she is buried to the hilt.

He leaves no epitaph upon the stone. Excalibur’s warning is writ clear upon her hilt, and in any case, she was forged to allow only two people to wield her. One is asleep, as Harry’s body absorbs the power of the Grail, and one is determined to never touch her again, as it is foretold Eggsy will only ever use Excalibur for King Arthur’s final death.

Eggsy doesn’t know how he will avert destiny, but he’s done it once, and he’ll do it again.

 _You cannot run forever,_ Excalibur whispers, wrathful beneath stone and water. _Your true self will always rise to the surface._

“I’ve been running for a thousand lifetimes,” Eggsy replies. “I’m done running. I will find a way.” 

He takes a deep breath and looks around. The island is indeed beautiful, called straight from the depths of the ocean as Merlin stepped free of Avalon’s teachings and began to exercise his immense power for the first time. There are clear skies and creatures roaming the fields and fresh running water. Eggsy could stay here as long as he liked, guarding Excalibur and the Grail, and here he could await Arthur’s return.

But he has a job to do. 

“May we meet again once your thirst for war has softened beneath earth and ocean,” Eggsy murmurs. “May we meet again once you remember your purpose in peace. May we meet again as allies and servants of the Once and Future King, and not enemies.”

There is no reply from Excalibur.

Eggsy really hadn’t expected any, though.

* * *

When Harry wakes up, he has a splitting headache.

Given that Harry had never expected to ever wake up again, not once but twice, Harry thinks that it’s perfectly understandable that the first thing he says a scowling Merlin is: “What in the bloody hell is going on.”

“Welcome back to the land of living,” Merlin mutters grumpily, poking him with a pen and various other instruments that Harry has sincere doubts are actually medical devices. “I used the Holy Grail and the hundreds of lives that he generously collected to keep you from slipping back into Avalon. I have enough pyres to build today and I wasn’t interested in adding one more. You’re welcome.”

At first, Harry wants to ask if Merlin thinks they’re in some kind of medieval reenactment. Then his headache grows about ten times worse when his King Arthur memories come pouring back in, though they at least have the decency to hold off on throbbing until Harry can put context to Merlin’s words.

“I thought the Holy Grail didn’t like sorcerers.”

“Aye, it still doesn’t. But your dear Eggsy didn’t leave it much choice.”

Harry can’t help the reflexive twitch at Eggsy’s name. He already carried enough guilt for lashing out at the boy earlier, and now he has two lifetimes worth of guilt. 

“Oi, quit moving. It’s hard enough to judge your medical fitness when you’re sitting still, and you’re not helping matters by kicking all over the bed, Your Royal Pain in My Backside.”

“That’s not the proper way to address your king,” Harry says, amused.

That earns him a distinctly unimpressed eyebrow. “You’re not my King yet. I still haven’t managed to measure if the memories integrated properly.”

“If you wanted me to introduce myself, you only had to ask, you know. I am Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther Pendragon and Igraine DuBois of Camelot,” Harry offers. “And I am also Harry Hart, son of – ”

“Hilarious.”

“Well, do you have another suggestion for me to prove I haven’t lost my marbles?”

Merlin leans back and crosses their arms, tapping against their clipboard. It had once driven Harry to irritation during training, but Merlin didn’t rise to their position by sheer dumb luck, and every Kingsman has tics they can’t shake. Harry lets it be and waits.

“Tell me about Camlann,” Merlin says finally.

“I’d really rather not?”

“I will leave you tied to this bed and have you committed straight to a mental institution,” Merlin threatens.

Harry sighs. He hates remembering Camlann, mostly because during his long sleep it had featured quite often in his dreams. He had dreamt of his death so many times he had almost gotten bored with it. “I made a mistake of trusting Morgana to play fair. Then I paid for that mistake when I lost too much blood and died. And don’t you dare blame Mord – Eggsy for it. It was my mistake.”

“Well, I’m glad you haven’t lost your self-sacrificing streak.”

“You didn’t know me back then,” Harry points out, because he’s almost one hundred percent certain he never knew Merlin in his past life. “How could you know that?”

Merlin just looks at him. “I know Harry Hart. I doubt King Arthur was much different.”

Which is fair enough.

“So can I ask some questions now, or is going to be a strictly one-sided interrogation?” Harry asks.

Merlin flaps a dismissive hand at him and then stomps off to go fiddle with some screens. It’s as good as permission as anything, since Merlin never settles down unless they have some to poke at in their hands. The multi-tasking is what makes Merlin such an excellent handler, even if it sometimes means everyone ends up feeling like they’re never really paying full attention to whoever’s talking to them.

“Who are you?” Harry starts with, since he feels like saying “who were you” would probably be badly received.

Merlin looks at him with faint golden eyes. “My name is Nimueh. Merlin was my teacher, once upon a time. You knew him as Chester King,” they add calmly, almost as an afterthought, like Chester King wasn’t the most powerful sorcerer in the world masquerading as an old doddering human.

“Er,” Harry says, because he’s not really sure what to make of that. “And how did you get my memories back? Why didn’t he do it?”

“Merlin’s magic was tied to the magic of the world. As that magic drained, so did his. He still had enough power to move himself along, else he would have perished long ago, but he lost the power of true Sight eons before you and I came along. Your memories were restored by the same power of the Grail that brought you back to life, although I’m afraid it was between your eye and your memories, so you’ll have to live with being one-eyed.”

“Well,” Harry says, “I did once think about being a pirate.”

“I’m not making you a pirate eye patch,” Merlin snaps, which is a blatant lie if anything. Merlin hasn’t denied Harry anything since they took up the Merlin post.

“I think my eye’s a little past magical regrowing,” Harry points out.

“That’s what artificial technology is for, do keep up. Any more obvious questions or are we done?”

Harry takes a deep breath. Sometimes the hardest questions are the most important. “Where is Eggsy?” He tries to keep desperation out of his tone, but he’s pretty he fails, since Merlin visibly softens.

“I kicked him out when you started waking up. He needed a shower and food, and also to stop pacing a hole in the floor about you possibly putting him to the sword or kicking him out of the Kingsman or more nonsense along those lines. He was irritating me.”

The last person who had irritated Merlin had ended up dangling from a plane, so it’s a reasonable explanation.

“I’ll make a royal decree if I have to,” Harry says immediately, casting about for his glasses or a pen and paper or anything, really. “He is to be pardoned for whatever – ”

“Harry,” Merlin interrupts. “No one else knows. Eggsy retains his memories by curse, I by choice, and you by gift. _No one else knows_. No one is about to charge him with royal murder, but if you keep blabbing he might be when people start sniffing. So take a deep breath and think very carefully what you will say to him when I let him back in. He has had a few thousand years to build up a panic, after all.”

Merlin is almost to the door when Harry remembers his final question.

“What happened to Chester King?”

The door handle makes an unholy screeching sound. Merlin makes a face at it, and with a flash of golden eyes sets it to rights. “I put my teacher to rest in sea and stone and sapling, as foretold. There he will rest until he is called upon by the King once more.” The words are clinical and dry, but the last time Harry had heard that tone from Merlin, they had just been beaten to a pulp by bullies and repaid the favor tenfold.

“Then, as a favor to the King,” Harry says, “I would ask you, Nimueh of Avalon, to take your place at my left hand as the court sorcerer.”

“That won’t make some people happy.”

“Camelot is for everyone,” Harry says firmly, because he hadn’t cared when he was King Arthur and he certainly doesn’t mind now. He’s known Merlin for far too long to care what others think. “And no one is more qualified than you to walk in two worlds at once and guide me. Unless you’re refusing the post?”

Merlin waits for a moment, and then says, “I suppose I might have to call you my King after all.”

Eggsy is standing literally right outside of the door when Merlin opens it, so he has to do an awkward half hop to get around them before he can dash inside the room. He looks terrible – bruises on his arms and shadows under his eyes and hair falling everywhere – but he is alive, gloriously and beautifully alive, and that’s really all that matters to Harry right now.

Then he skids onto his knees, and Harry is absolutely not having that.

“Get up,” Harry says. Then louder, “Get _up_.”

Eggsy just flinches, shoulders rounding, and curls a little tighter into his kneeling supplication. “I’m so sorry,” he says, words tumbling out of his mouth like the curls escaping his hairstyle. “I never should have – ”

“Mordred,” Harry says. “Get up.”

Eggsy gets up.

“I don’t blame you,” Harry tells him, hand outstretched to match the olive branch in his words. “I told you, just as I was dying. Did you think I was lying to you?”

“Yes,” Eggsy says bluntly. “You said the same thing when Sir Gaheris collided with your horse and she threw you and nearly broke your spine. You’d say anything to spare someone, if you could.”

“What do dead men have to lie about?”

“You weren’t dead yet.”

“As good as. You made the choice to leave Camelot, Eggsy, and you made the choice to face me in single combat. That doesn’t make you responsible for my death. I chose to face you knowing what Camlann meant for me. I chose to let my sister see me and steal my scabbard. I chose not to kill you in single combat, so that you might live. Those were my choices; I won’t have you bear the burdens of them.”

Eggsy’s mouth twitches. “I knew you were holding back.”

“Not by much,” Harry admits. “You were younger and stronger than me, and Morgana had done her work well. There was no other outcome from our battle than the one she desired.”

“Merlin killed her, you know,” Eggsy says. “He set her on fire and then ripped her apart.”

“Merlin did a lot of things I don’t approve of.” Harry closes his eyes, because nothing is more painful than acknowledging something someone beloved has done in your name and memory. “Like trying to force Nimueh to change. Like trying to kill you.”

Eggsy shrugs. It’s easy, effortless, as though he’s truly used to someone trying to kill him. And perhaps he is, but it doesn’t make it any easier for Harry to accept. Harry built Camelot to make it a safe haven for everyone, no matter what, and the second Eggsy walked into Harry’s life he became part of that dream, that responsibility, that world. Even though Merlin and Excalibur both had wanted to destroy him, Harry had said no, and he stands by that.

“I am a Kingslayer,” Eggsy says. “Perhaps I deserved it.”

“If you do, then so do I,” Harry replies. “I am a Kingslayer too. Albion didn’t kneel peacefully before me. You know this.”

“It was destiny. Foretold. Albion was supposed to be your kingdom.”

“Yes, well,” Harry says, “to hell with destiny. I find I’m rather tired of it. It’s very irritating to have everyone bow and scrape and tell you that you’re amazing just because destiny said you would be.”

“I never said that.”

“I know.” Harry looks at him, flawed so perfectly, hurting so beautifully, loving so unreservedly. “Why do you think I loved you so much? You never, for one second, bowed to me because destiny said you should. You waited until you felt I earned it, and the second you thought I lost it you left me. I was your King, but never because destiny told you I was.”

Eggsy hesitates. Harry supposes it’s one thing to imagine a requited love, and rather another thing entirely to face it. 

“You love Guinevere,” Eggsy says, throwing the words out like one last stick of dynamite in an attempt to blow up the bridge, retreating into his castle and holding his hands over his ears so he can’t hear the way the attack carries on regardless. “She was your wife and queen.”

“Guinevere was terrified of me,” Harry tells him. “Her father gave her to me for an alliance. He practically sold her. She was my queen and I honored her, but she never could have been my love.”

Eggsy shakes his head. It’s slow but steady, and so utterly reminiscent of the arguments they used to have that Harry smiles reflexively. He learned war at his mother’s knee and his father’s side; he knows exactly what must be done to achieve victory. And he won’t let Eggsy carry his burden any longer.

“I can’t be what you need. You’re the Once and Future King.”

“What I need,” Harry says, “is a reminder that destiny isn’t everything. That’s all I need. And you’re more than qualified to remind me of that.”

Then Harry sits up, pushing past the pain and the headache, and he reaches out and touches the one person he’s always dreamed of holding and he brings their faces together and kisses him, and it’s everything he could have ever dreamed out, lying in state at Avalon. He’s loved Eggsy for so long that it’s a part of him now, beating deep in his soul, and even if Eggsy left him this very moment, he could never go back to the way he was before he first glimpsed Eggsy in that tavern. This is what love does, it changes someone, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse, but either way it leaves a mark that can’t be erased, only softened. And Harry has had thousands of years to soften his love, so now it is not with desperation that he kisses Eggsy, but only relief.

“Stay with me,” Harry begs, eyes closed so he can’t see Eggsy’s refusal. “Please stay. Stay here and leave those hideous shoes around my home and let your dog run wild over my shoes and terrify the handlers with your driving. Stay here and help me rebuild Camelot. Just stay with me.”

Eggsy breathes against his lips, faint and soft, and then he says, very quietly, “Okay.”

And just like that, destiny finds it necessary to move onto a new path.

FINIS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another reference to The Mists of Avalon for the fate of Merlin, although it's less . . . murder-y than in the book.
> 
> And that's the end! Thank you so much for reading, and thanks again to everyone who's helped me get here: all of my friends, my dear artist meetingyourmaker, the mods, all of you - so many hugs and kisses!
> 
> A/N: For a list of who is who, the Arthurian times are on the left and Kingsman times are on the right.  
> \- King Arthur = Harry Hart  
> \- Mordred = Eggsy Unwin  
> \- Merlin = Chester King  
> \- Excalibur = Gazelle  
> \- Holy Grail = Richmond Valentine  
> \- Nimueh = Merlin

**Author's Note:**

> I am also on [tumblr](http://thesilverqueenlady.tumblr.com)! Feel free to wander over and say hi, I love making new friends.


End file.
